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 OF THE 
 
 U N 1VLR.S1TY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 6:2.3 
 
 /.I
 
 GRANTLEY GRANGE.
 
 GEANTLEY GRANGE: 
 
 BENEDICTS AND BACHELORS. 
 
 BY 
 
 SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP. 
 
 ' An early worsljipiier at Nature's slirine, 
 I lOTCtl lier rudest scenes— wan-ens and heaths, 
 And yellow connnons, and birch-sliaded hollows, 
 And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes.' 
 
 C. SMITH, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. T. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROrHERS, 8 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 
 
 1874. 
 
 \_T>>.c right Of translation and reproduction is reserved.]
 
 LOXDON : 
 KOBSON AND SONS, PRINTER?, "PAKCRAS ROAD, N.W.
 
 7^3 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. John Archek of Grantlev Grange . . i 
 
 y II. EOYSTON EOOKERY ThE DaWN OF DaY . 2 3 
 
 ^^ III. Out witii the Cuus, and a Kiss in the 
 
 ft HOP-Y'ARD 50 
 
 3 IV. A queer Customer — Morning in the 
 
 5 Valley 73 
 
 V. Andrews of Coney Green and the Ham- 
 
 (J LET OF HONEYBROOK . . • QI 
 
 VI. Moonlight on the Hills — Experience 
 
 !4 
 
 1^ PAID FOR . . . , . .109 
 
 VII. A Chat in the Studio — Johnson and 
 r* Kate Archer . . . . .127 
 
 f^ VIII. Autumn Tints x\.nd Woodland Scenery . 147 
 Ot IX. A Ghost in the Open — Guiffin in the 
 J Grip . . . . . .169 
 
 X. Old John, and how it happened . .188 
 ^ XI. Burton of Boscabel — Into the Kiver, 
 
 and down with the Flood . .207
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGB 
 
 XII. The Eun feom Henley — A wet Jacket 
 
 FOR A WHITE TiP . . . .226 
 
 XIII. Sunshine after Eain — The Storm and 
 
 THE Clearing ..... 242 
 
 XIV. Flirtation in the Fernery — Jane Clare 
 
 AND John Archer . . . .262
 
 GRANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 JOHN ARCHER OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 ' Well, John, old fellow, I see you are still 
 amongst the good-looking ones ! You have 
 a rare bro^vn horse there,' said .Wells, as his 
 friend Archer, who had come swinging 
 along on the hand-gallop from Grantley 
 Grange, drew rein and came up the hollow- 
 way, that was deep down under the terrace- 
 wall, where Wells stood by the hollyhocks. 
 It was Royston Rookery that he came 
 to, where Wells lived; an old-fashioned 
 Manor-house in the Teme Valley, that was 
 well situated in the midst of hop-yards 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 and orchards, half-way down a slope that 
 looked to the river and the fishing-fords. 
 And it belonged to Wells, and it was a good 
 sort of place to live at ; for it was a pic- 
 turesque old house, of irregular height, and 
 roomy ; half-timbered and patterned with 
 ovals and circles and cross-bars, and heavy 
 with ivy ; and it had some big bay windows 
 and a jutting porch, and clustered chimneys 
 — twisted — and tall vanes. It was under a 
 rookery too, and by a moat ; and there was 
 a breadth of lawn and a sweep of shrub- 
 bery, and iron gates that led into a tangled 
 garden. 
 
 Corn-fields were about it, and meadows 
 below it ; and high hills were at the back of 
 it, that were wooded to the top of them. And 
 'the blow' there was as good as a sea blow, for 
 you had a sweep of seventy miles of coun- 
 try for the looking for it — from the Welsh 
 mountains to the Cotswolds ; and there was 
 such a fluttering of pigeons and a cawing
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE, 
 
 of rooks and a cackling of fowls, and so 
 many other soujids about tlie buildings, that 
 there seemed to be a good deal of busy life 
 there ; and the neighing of colts and the 
 clatter of hoofs told that the o^vner of it 
 was a horseman. 
 
 And as Archer, having ridden round to 
 the front, jumped off at the porch, that was 
 bright with roses and red autumn berries, 
 Wells came across the lawn and met him. 
 
 'He is a fine-topped horse too, John,' 
 said he, ' and a stepper. How are you ? A 
 new one, is he not ; where did you pick him 
 up?' 
 
 ' May had him for a customer,' said 
 Archer ; ' but as the horse seemed a likely 
 one, and they did not deal, I bought him. 
 How do you like him ?' 
 
 ' His colour is good,' said Wells. 
 
 'Yes, it is,' said Archer; 'a good and 
 lasting one. Look at his mousey flank and 
 tan-touched muzzle. He is a beauty !'
 
 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 ' He moves well, John.' 
 
 ' He has pace too, Harry, and can fence 
 a bit. Throw your leg over him and feel 
 his mouth. How are the colts ?' 
 
 ' 0, flourishing ! They are all together 
 now ; ride down and see them.' 
 
 ' Well, jump up, then, and give me your 
 opinion just what you think of him.' 
 
 So Archer turned the horse round, and 
 Harry mounted; and then they went 
 through a gorsed hollow- way down into 
 the m.eadows to see the colts — five of them 
 — and the brood mares that were with them; 
 and they found them standing together 
 there by some shedding, that was gorsed 
 and wattled, and fronted south, serving for 
 both shade and shelter. 
 
 And past the shed was a brook — a trout 
 stream— that came down through the woods 
 to the river; and there were some hurdles 
 on the other side of it, and bushed bars be 
 yond them, and a flight of rails with a gate
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 in the middle of it, up under the hedgerow 
 at the top, put there for jumping practice, 
 as Wells rode his horses there in the sum- 
 mer to get them clever at their fences, and 
 so make them into money in the hunting 
 season. 
 
 'AVell,' said Wells, as he handled the 
 horse like a workman, 'I like his move, 
 John, and his action ; he does not ride 
 amiss by any means. What shall I put 
 him at?' 
 
 ' Just what you please,' replied Archer. 
 ' Give him the hurdles, and then try the 
 gorse.' 
 
 So, crossing the brook at the roadway, 
 Wells laid hold of him, and rushing him at 
 the hurdles, the horse topped them cleverly; 
 and taking the bars in his stride, jumped 
 them like a greyhound ! 
 
 Wells then turned him round, and rode 
 him gently down towards the water, caught 
 his head short as he got near it, and sent
 
 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 him at it. Answering the call, the brown 
 horse cleared it with lengthy bound, and 
 landed splendidly, dropping at once into a 
 steady canter, which, changing to a gallop 
 at a touch, he raced him down to where the 
 brook was mder — an open unbushed place 
 higher up the meadow — when, without 
 swerve or balk, he fled it famously, and 
 dropped into his pace again just like a 
 hunter. 
 
 'A water - jumper, John, and no mis- 
 take!' said Harry, as he came up, patting 
 him. ' How well he goes ! Will Stevens 
 and the gray will have a rival.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' returned Archer; ' but take 
 him on and j)ut him over a good fence or 
 two ; you will not part company, I can as- 
 sure you.' 
 
 ' 0, never mind ; I see he knows his 
 business. What are you up to?' said 
 Wells, seeing that his friend was busy with 
 his pencil.
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 ' Just marking-in the forms of this old 
 oak,' said Archer, ' as we are here. I have 
 it on the canvas, with those two mares in 
 shade and the rest in front, full in the sun- 
 light. But those boughs yonder I shall 
 lengthen, to throw some of the youngsters 
 in half-shadow. I think they'll group the 
 better for it, Harry.' 
 
 ' You are very good, John. When shall 
 you finish it ?' 
 
 '0, soon,' said Archer; 'the first time 
 I can get a Avorking fit.' 
 
 'Thanks,' Wells said; 'I shall prize it. 
 I mean to hang it in the dining-room; there 
 is a good light there. You should most cer- 
 tainly have been an artist ; you would have 
 been R.A. by now, old fellow !' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Archer, ' if R. A. signi- 
 fied just " ruggling at it," and selling " pot- 
 boilers" for a pound apiece. Paint if you 
 like, Harry, for a bit of pastime — I know 
 you do a little in that way, just now and
 
 JOHN AECHER 
 
 then — that's very well ; but as for a living, 
 why, it means starvation.' 
 
 ' Our stout-built friend, old Johnson,' 
 Wells said, 'looks like starving, does he 
 not ? — strong as a horse, and at least six feet 
 in height, and with as nice a place as man 
 need live in.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but as a rule you Avill, though, 
 find it true ; unless a man is born with 
 talent in him, or he has the interest of good 
 friends to aid him. Now Johnson is a 
 genius,' Archer said, 'as all acknowledge, 
 and he has good friends too, who can 
 always aid him. However, Harry, as my 
 share chanced to be the " silver spoon," so I 
 can work or play; though were it otherwise, 
 I should be less lazy. But, unfortunately, 
 as you know, my dear felloAv, money is " the 
 root of all evil," as our school-copy read 
 when we were juveniles.' 
 
 ' And the source of any quantity of 
 good,' was the reply. ' If you should hate
 
 OF GKANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 a surplus,' Wells said, 'hand it over. I 
 know the good of it, and I will chance "the 
 evil.'" 
 
 Ten years ago these men left school to- 
 gether when they were twenty- one — for 
 lads remained there in those days till the 
 nonsense was knocked out of them, and 
 they were fit to face the world — Wells com- 
 ing home to assist his father at the farm, 
 and Archer going to learn the law in 
 London. 
 
 And as Wells was fond of farming, and 
 always put his shoulder to the wheel like a 
 man who meant it, he was able, when his 
 old father died six years later, to take the 
 management of the farm for his mother, 
 who, with her two daughters, continued to 
 live with him. 
 
 After a time both sisters married, and 
 settled within a few miles of each other, 
 some distance up the valley. The mother 
 then rented a cottage to be near them ; so
 
 10 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 his aunt, Mrs. Cooper, her sister, came to 
 keep house for him — he remaining a 
 bachelor. 
 
 But Archer, who was living in London, 
 articled to an old uncle in Carey -street, 
 was too fond of the country to take readily 
 to a town life, and he soon tired of it ; the 
 sooner, perhaps, because he knew that in 
 all probability he should never be obliged 
 to practise the law as a profession ; and the 
 time therefore with him passed drearily, so 
 that he never heard from his friend Wells 
 without longing to be back again in the old 
 country. 
 
 But with the greenery of Lincoln's Inn 
 and Gray's Inn, and the musical tinkle of 
 the fountain in the Temple, he did at length 
 manage most days, while summer lasted, 
 to get some slight set-off against the hard 
 high stool, the drudgery of office, and the 
 endless survey of bricks and mortar. 
 
 For he had only to evade the vigilance
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 11 
 
 of Mr. Kewtye— the ' managing man,' when 
 his uncle was away — to be in a few minutes 
 over the roar of Fleet- street, and safe in 
 the solitude of the Temple Gardens, where, 
 m his loved surroundings of rustling leaves 
 and falling water, sweeps of greensward 
 and a moving river, with tall trees like 
 the old tall trees ^ at home,' he, ' in the 
 quiet of the dear old place, would, with 
 his well-thumbed ' Tennyson' for company, 
 forget the details of the law and its be- 
 longings. 
 
 And when he turned homewards in 
 the evenings, he would go up through the 
 Green Park, and wait for the jingle of the 
 four-in-hands as he loitered in Rotten-row, 
 and watched the riders there, and coveted 
 their horses for a gallop. And he Avould 
 linger long at the rails there until Royalty 
 came by ; that, as a low murmur ran along 
 them and hats were raised, he might catch 
 a glimpse of that sweet pale face with the
 
 12 JOHN AECHEK 
 
 kindly smile, that, if it but bent towards him, 
 sent him on his way all the hapj^ier under the 
 old trees where the rooks were cawing, while 
 settling in the twilight in their places ; that 
 straightway turned his thoughts to sounds 
 near home — sounds that he liked and used 
 to listen to at Royston Rookery along with 
 Wells, when the evening shadows purpled 
 out and faded under that hill-side many a 
 mile away. 
 
 But his best days were Saturdays ; for 
 those were 'red-letter' ones, and given to 
 the river or South Kensington — forgetting 
 at the latter all the world amongst the 
 pictures ; and thence for Bayswater across 
 'the Gardens,' over the lengthened sha- 
 dows of the elms — his pipe his company. 
 He had his picture- windoAvs too, just like 
 a child, and 'did' them regularly; and 
 when his uncle sent him west on busi- 
 ness, he would get across to Christie's and 
 M 'Lean's, and come back wild about some
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 13 
 
 '^rand old Cox,' or Hulme, or Gilbert, Cat- 
 termole or Frith. 
 
 His route to Carey-street being Covent- 
 garden, he would bargain with the old 
 women at the stalls for homely garden 
 flowers and common ferns. He always 
 had fresh flowers and some birds. A dos 
 he could not keep, or he would have had 
 one; but as he fraternised with Dick, the 
 cat, a fine black fellow who sat purring by 
 him, he soon made up for it, for they be- 
 came great friends. 
 
 His Sundays too were pleasurable ; for 
 
 if not booked for dinner at his uncle's, he 
 
 would start betimes for some far villaoe- 
 
 o 
 
 church ; and after service — simple and 
 earnest there like that ' at home' — dine 
 at some road-side inn, and then turn out 
 in loving search of heaths, by-lanes, and 
 commons, or wherever else he might find 
 birds or flowers, or anything that seemed 
 to look ' like home.'
 
 14 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 But even with all these set-offs, his 
 office duties were the direst drudgery, and 
 he found himself quite unable to settle 
 down to the daily routine required of him. 
 For being a true lover of nature, and there- 
 fore of the country, and endowed with a 
 poetic temperament and great enthusiasm, 
 no wonder that at times — away from his 
 loved woods and hills, and all their 
 greenery — he should so dearly long for 
 his own apple-orchards and the cowslip- 
 meadows, the bluebell -hedgerows and the 
 primrose-copses, and the nightingale-lanes 
 that were hawthorn-hidden, ' at the old home 
 in Worcestershire.' 
 
 And his most joyous of all evenings — 
 those at the Academy — helped this feeling, 
 when in the glad hours he so often spent 
 there — and they were indeed very happy 
 ones — he saw but the pictures, not the 
 people; and longed to be away with Cole 
 in the corn-fields, or with Leader on the
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 15 
 
 hills, or up amongst the Welsh mountains 
 and with Syer for company. 
 
 And autumn came again, his second 
 autumn ; and the play of light ceased 
 amongst the leaves, and there was no 
 longer on the sanded walk a moving 
 flicker of red-gold and purple. And dead 
 leaves fell in the fountain, and the old 
 garden - seat in the Temple was littered 
 with them; and blue mists crept along 
 the grass, and damps came up from the 
 river; and Archer perforce became more 
 learned in the law. 
 
 Then fogs came on ; not the thin white 
 fogs of home, that, though they grayed the 
 hills, yet showed the woods through, but 
 thick ones — dense ones, ten times worse 
 than last year — fogs he could almost 
 eat ; that shrouded him in their yellow- 
 ness, and bumped him badly, hiding the 
 folks he met, and bothering him. And 
 drivers harassed him with shouts, and cabs
 
 16 JOHN AECHER 
 
 worried him with shaves, and boys so 
 maddened him with cries, that he felt, if 
 it continued much longer, he must kick 
 somebody. 
 
 For his evening walks home over the 
 soft green turf where the sheep were, and 
 with the rooks and the song-birds for com- 
 pany, had been obliged to be given up — 
 as .the days got shorter — and exchanged 
 for a stuffy omnibus at the Turnstile ; that, 
 as it was always filled quite full with 
 steaming City men, bound like himself for 
 Bayswater, and grumbling at the weather 
 and the funds, did not mend matters or 
 temper. 
 
 But the fogs got thicker, and the horses 
 fell; and passengers got out and walked, 
 and growled at being morning after morn- 
 ing so late at office. And sleet began to 
 drive, and snow to fall ; and then the climax 
 came, for dirt and mud and slush were 
 everywhere ; that made his thoughts turn
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 17 
 
 still more to the country, where he knew 
 there would be snow, but white and glitter- 
 ing — ay, white for miles ; and the ground 
 crisp, and the ice thick, and not like that 
 in the parks — unsafe and rotten. 
 
 The rabbiting and the ratting too would 
 be remembered, round by the orchard hedge- 
 rows and the ricks, with that varmint, Tan- 
 ner, and that cute old Bobby, the two dogs 
 — Archer's chums; and Jerry would be 
 thought of, the stout cob that he had to 
 ride, and who had carried him so well with 
 the hounds in the holidays, and who would 
 'lead over a fence, when the drop on the 
 north side was a frosty one, or the hog- 
 backed stile looked ' nasty.' So it very soon 
 came about that London was spoken of 
 disrespectfully, Carey - street condemned, 
 and the law-books one and all anathema- 
 tised. 
 
 And as time went on, the craving for the 
 country that John Archer had, intensified ; 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 and the hard high stool seemed harder, and 
 dreary days stiU drearier ; when — all at 
 once as it seemed — they ceased to use gas 
 in the office, for the days were longer, and 
 light till ' leaving time.' 
 
 Then shadows fell from houses on the 
 road; for bursts of sunshine came, that 
 filled the Kentish lanes with primroses, and 
 brought the flower-girls, who plagued him 
 constantly with them and violets, just as 
 they seemed to do twelve months ago. 
 That time was bad enough, but he got 
 over it; but now, do what he would, it 
 would bring back to mind each nook in 
 all those dear old lanes 'at home,' where 
 all spring wild-flowers grew. He dodged 
 the fern -men every time he saw them, and 
 crossed the street at every flower-girl, and 
 shirked his one pet place of Covent- 
 garden. 
 
 But it was all in vain, however, for he 
 got worse, and even passed the black man
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 19 
 
 mthout giving, and the old crooning 
 woman who so 'God blessed' him. And 
 then, unable to put up mth it any longer 
 — for he found punching the boy and scor- 
 ing his pad furiously did him no manner 
 of good — he plainly told his uncle he 
 would have no more of it ' there' — law or 
 no law. 
 
 So, rushing off to Bayswater, and bid- 
 ding his artist-friends good-bye, he packed 
 his traps in the morning, and caught the 
 ten train at Paddington ; his old chum, 
 Johnson, with whom he lived, seeing 'the 
 last of him,' Of course there was a row 
 when he did get home, but he did not mind 
 it; for once at the Grange, he said he should 
 stay there. 
 
 And he did stay there; for his father 
 dying soon afterwards — in the following 
 spring, killed by a fall while hunting — he 
 came into possession ; when, getting his 
 younger brother to see to the estate, and
 
 20 JOHN ARCHER 
 
 remain with his sister — his mother being 
 dead — he joined Johnson and some artists 
 in a sketching tour, that included a six- 
 months' sojourn in Rome. 
 
 With a love for 'common objects/ and 
 with an eye for colour, he always seemed 
 to see a beauty in everything; and he 
 would often amuse his more prosaic friends 
 on his return home by his glowing descrip- 
 tion of scenes and scenery that they had 
 themselves Avholly ignored, or had in part 
 passed over — so much did he appreciate 
 that joy of colour, that harmony of form, 
 and that all-pervading presence of the beau- 
 tiful, that, so thoroughly ' felt' by artists, 
 seems sometimes strange to others. 
 
 And so, with his yearning for the coun- 
 try satisfied, he at length settled down to 
 lead the life of a country gentleman; his 
 brother Edward taking the management of 
 the estate, and being well paid for his stew- 
 ardship ; and he, John Archer, spending
 
 OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 21 
 
 his time now at home, now with his ac- 
 quaintances — a wide circle of hunting and 
 artist friends. In the winter he stayed 
 some time at Hazelwood, where Brandon, 
 one of his tenants, lived — a very pretty 
 place lower down the valley — as it w^as 
 handier for the hunting of that portion. 
 And in the summer, when he got away for 
 a few weeks to have a run round amongst 
 his old friends, he made Town bearable by 
 devoting the greater portion of his time 
 there to the Academy, and to the studios 
 of the men he knew. 
 
 And now that he was just commencing 
 his sixth season with hounds, and had pro- 
 mised his friend Burton of Boscobel to 
 come out in scarlet — to ' don the pink' — 
 Charlie beino-, according; to his own show- 
 ing, a shy youth, and in want of some one 
 to bear him company and go shares in 
 'lighting up the landscape,' he. Archer, 
 had ridden up to Wells, who lived on the
 
 22 JOHN ARCHER OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 
 
 Herefordshire side of the river, ten miles 
 distant from the Grange, to see about some 
 hay and oats, and to show him his new 
 horse and to have a gossip ; and also to have 
 another look at the mares and colts, before 
 putting in the finishing touches to the pic- 
 ture he was painting.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ROYSTON EOOKERY— THE DAAVN OF DAY 
 
 'There, then, Harry,' said Archer, as he 
 finished sketching the oak, and proceeded 
 to touch-in some portions of the shed under 
 it, as Wells sat on the brown horse and 
 watched him ; ' I think that will do. There 
 is first-rate colour on that old gnarled 
 trunk. Look at those grays,' said he, ' and 
 broAvns ; those tender greens and nice cool 
 neutral tints. I certainly must try if I can 
 get them, and that old thatch. Where 
 those boughs bend I think I will put some 
 pigeons — ^some white ones. They would 
 come in well above that chestnut colt.' 
 
 ' They would,' said AVells. 
 
 ' How well that old tree branches, does 
 it not?' said Archer. 'The way those
 
 24 KOYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 boughs give off is most artistic ; though, 
 were Charlie Burton here, he would see " a 
 tree," — just that and only that, like the 
 famed primrose on the river's brim, — and 
 miss all that sweet colour most completely, 
 and all those forms and branchings I have 
 sketched, A melancholy case, I call it, 
 Harry — untutored vision. 
 
 ' Now that is where I gain, and where 
 he loses. It is strange too,' said Archer ; 
 ' for when we have been in town during 
 the season, and have gone together to the 
 Academy, I have several times been quite 
 delighted to see him, when there, positively 
 pleased at some poor transcript of a scene 
 he knew; and yet that same scene, as 
 painted all by Nature, would be passed re- 
 peatedly by him — ay, quite unnoticed. So 
 with the multitude! The highest praise, 
 you very often find, is lavished on some 
 painty-looking picture — Nature at second- 
 hand, inferior to her — that fails most ut-
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 25 
 
 terly in the original to gain one word. Is 
 
 it not strange ?' 
 
 o 
 
 ' It is,' said Wells. ' I cannot under- 
 stand it; for though not versed in art, I 
 do see colour.' 
 
 * I often think how much is missed,' said 
 Archer, ' through that same want of sight. 
 Now Charlie, I daresay, most days rides 
 round the farm ; and through the lanes and 
 the woods, and along the hills, and so back 
 home by the river ; and yet, as I know, 
 all he sees — or perhaps, for the matter of 
 that, five hundred others — is land, trees, 
 water ! Well, I go, we'll say, the same 
 round, and I see fine colour, and light and 
 shade in every combination, and changing 
 tints, the same as you might do, and groups 
 and forms too that are picturesque, and 
 make material for artists' bits — "pictures," 
 in short, unframed, but nature-painted ; the 
 grand originals man never equalled ! Who 
 has the best ride, think you, he or I ?
 
 26 ROYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 'That is just where I gain when I am 
 hunting : where others find but sport, I find 
 enjoyment. I like the sport, but I also 
 love the country ; and so,' said Archer, ' in- 
 stead of limiting the pleasure that I have 
 to just the run, my pleasure, hunting 
 days, includes it all — the ride to hounds, 
 and that back home again. What their eyes 
 miss, mine see ; that's just about it. A 
 blessed faculty, and thank God for it!' 
 Now, then, I am with you, Harry,' said 
 Archer, as he pocketed the sketch. 
 
 'Well, jump up, then,' said Wells, 'and ride 
 him, John. We will go up to the house.' 
 
 'No,' he replied; 'you keep your sit- 
 ting, man; I'll walk. If you have luck, 
 those colts will make some money.' 
 
 'This brown horse too,' Wells said; 
 ' or I am mistaken. He will keep a place, 
 you'll see, when hunting comes.' 
 
 ' He has already done so,' was the reply, 
 'and a good place too.'
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 27 
 
 ' He has ! Where, when ? — not since you 
 bought hmi, John T 
 
 ' Yes, since,' said Archer ; ' last week a 
 time or two, and twice before. I had him 
 out, too, yesterday, cub-hunting.' 
 
 * So soon ?' said Wells. 
 
 'Most of the grain is in,' said Archer, 
 ' where our hounds draw. They are sooner 
 there than we are in the valley.' 
 
 'Well, you are early, John.' 
 
 ' I like to be. The first day's cubbing, 
 Harry, I turn out with hounds, and I make 
 most days with them all through the season.' 
 
 ' You get your money's worth, old boy, 
 I think.' 
 
 'I do ; if we have an early autumn and 
 a latish spring, and are not laid by through 
 frost. The two months' start I get, I would 
 not miss. The woodlands here are fine, but 
 fancy up there in a nice October !' 
 
 'Grand, I should say,' said Wells, as 
 he rode forward and opened the gate for
 
 28 EOYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 Archer. ' Well, here we are, then, John,' 
 said he, dismounting. ' Quiet, Countess, 
 down ; don't you be troublesome. Ross,' 
 said Wells, ' put her in a while, and see to 
 this horse. Let him have some chilled 
 water, and make him comfortable.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the groom, touching his 
 hat as he spoke. ' Here's Miles w^aiting to 
 see you, sir.' 
 
 ' Well, my man, what is it ?' said Wells 
 to an old fellow who was standing by the 
 stables, and who had edged away as the 
 horse went in. 
 
 'Ax yur pardin, sur, fur disturbin' on 
 ye,' said the fellow, as he pulled his fore- 
 lock, ' but a waants a noaate, if a ma be 
 so bould, fur poor Took fur the doctur. 
 The relavin' offisur dunna come till Toos- 
 day, sur, and as ye be Gardin o' the parish, 
 it 'ood saaive 'em waaitin' loike.' 
 
 ' What is the matter Avith him ?' said 
 Wells.
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 29 
 
 ' A dunna rieow disakly, sur,' was the 
 reply, 'but I apprehends as it's summut 
 i' his innards, or his yud. He took bad 
 i' the harvist, sur, a week agoo — the sun 
 come on him, sur, most onaccountably — 
 and he arn't been well roight since.' 
 
 'Yes, I heard of it,' said Wells; 'but 
 I thought he was better.' 
 
 ' I were a-washin' o' ma' 'ands, sur, at 
 woame, as I'd collied wi' the tay-kittle — my 
 woife, sur — that be Mary Moiles, as chars fur 
 ye a' toimes, sur, an' thank ye fur it ; bein' 
 out a-lazin', sur, wi' the wimmen folk i' the 
 whate-filds— when theer come a tabber at 
 the doore, an' in strays Hopcutt, the cow- 
 leech, sur, as cured " Blossom," an' maade 
 forty on 'em to the paail agen ; bless their 
 pratty 'arts, they be faamous milkers ! So 
 "John," says I — I calls him John, sur — "you 
 bin a-drinkin' ;" an' I bats him on his yud, 
 playful-loike, wi' ma hat, 'cos he'd got a 
 squilt o' his nose, sur, as showed the drink.
 
 30 ROYSTON EOOKERY. 
 
 "Don't be luiigeous, Moiles," says he, 
 " look's off his yud." " Lord bless me !" 
 says I ; " John, sit thee doun." So he sot 
 doun ; an' then he up and teld ma, sur, 
 as how he'd met the poor soul a-tryin' to 
 get through a gat i' the hedge in a unkid 
 sort o' a waay, as though he were moithered 
 loike; an' a-pearin' arter his butty, as he 
 said had fettled his horses and sooped 'em 
 oop, and had left him wi' a bigger load than 
 he could well heft — it were ony some broken 
 bits o' hetherins though, for his kittle. So 
 saysHopcutt, "Thinkin'," says he, "to turn 
 his thoughts a bit and cheer him up, poore 
 wretch, I says, The crops ha' bin koindish- 
 like, Tom" — Tom's his first naame, sur — 
 " fur theer be a dollup o' whate about this 
 turn." "Ay," says he, "a-pickin' at his 
 cooat, quaire and daffy-loike, " I conn a 
 mend it, the thread fazles so." " Then odds 
 it," says Hopcutt. But he couldna maake 
 much on him, sur ; so he saw him saafe at
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 31 
 
 woame — he lives theer anant the church, sur 
 — and then he corned on to ma to get ma see 
 fur the doctur; and so, sur, I corned to you.' 
 
 'Well, come into the kitchen,' said 
 Wells, 'and sit you down a bit.' 
 
 'Much obleeged, sur, that's sure,' said 
 the fellow. ' A drap o' port winde-and- 
 waater now moight do him a power o' good 
 p'raps, poor Avretch! They saay it be 
 moighty strengthnin' !' 
 
 ' Well, when the doctor thinks it proper 
 for him,' said Wells, 'if you will come up, 
 he shall have some ; and anything else that 
 is fit for him.' 
 
 'Thank you koindly, sur; it 'ood ba 
 welcome to him.' 
 
 ' Now, John,' said Wells, ' come in. 
 What will }^ou have, old fellow ?' 
 
 ' 0, nothing, thank you, Harry,' said 
 Archer. ' A Worcestershire youth that, 
 evidently,' said he. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Wells ; ' but with a cross
 
 32 ROYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 of Staffordshire in him. His mother was a 
 Dudley woman — "hur coom'd fro' Doodley 
 'ood soide," as he says — and it makes him 
 fond of the 0. Well, now, what will you 
 have ? After a good tfen-miles' ride I'm 
 sure you must want something, John,' said 
 Wells. ' Come, what is it to be ? 
 
 ' Just one drop of barland, then, Harry, 
 for a quencher. It is good, I know, and 
 will not hurt a body.' 
 
 'Made with the nut-mill, John, and 
 pure pear-juice. Excuse me just a moment. 
 Here, Mary,' said he, as he made out an 
 order for the doctor, 'just give that note 
 to Miles, and let him have some bread-and- 
 cheese and cider; then draw some perry, 
 and bring us both a crust in.' 
 
 ' How is your aunt?' said Archer. 
 
 ' 0, thanks, she is tidy-like,' said Wells. 
 ' She is gone up to the common with some 
 things for a youngster who is ill at one of 
 our cottages. There is a good deal of ill-
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 33 
 
 ness round about here. The doctor, they 
 say, is busy.' 
 
 ' The wind you always get on these 
 hills,' said Archer, 'ought though, one 
 would think, to blow it clear away.' 
 
 ' The fall of the leaf, John ; I suppose 
 that's it. What have you got this season ?' 
 
 'Four, and "fit;" the bay and gray 
 that I rode up to April, and this new 
 brown horse that you seem to fancy, and 
 that one at the farm at Hazelwood, that 
 golden bay. I always go there,' Archer 
 said, ' for some time in the season, and stay 
 with my tenant there ; you know him — 
 Brandon. How are }'0u off for hay now? 
 Have you any old ?' 
 
 ' Only a rick or two,' said Wells ; ' not 
 much to spare. What, are you out then?' 
 
 ' I have plenty of new left,' was the 
 reply, ' but not much old ; and Brandon, 
 too, is short; so I wish you would let me 
 have two tons or so.' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 EOYSTON KOOKEEY. 
 
 ' When shall you want it ?' said Wells ; 
 ' this week or the next ? Now help your- 
 self, John. You have seen to Miles, Mary?' 
 
 ' I have, sir,' said the girl. 
 
 ' Thanks, Harry,' said Archer. 
 
 ' 0, next week will do, if that is right 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Yes, that will suit me very well,' said 
 Wells ; ' we go for coal this week.' 
 
 ' What is it now?' said Archer. 
 
 ' Well, four at market, but three pounds 
 ten to you. Oats?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I could do with some, if they are 
 not too light. What price ?' 
 
 ' They are making three-and-six, but 
 three to you. They are bright and full, and 
 weigh well. How many shall I send you ?' 
 
 ' Say sixty bushels.' 
 
 ' How is the perry, John ?' 
 
 ' 0, very good,' said Archer. ' What a 
 fine colour it is !' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Wells ; ' it was all picked
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 35 
 
 fruit. Good healthy drink, John, and beats 
 all your spirits.' 
 
 ' Spirits ? I should think it does, in- 
 deed,' said Archer. ' The vilest things a 
 man can ever take to; they make men 
 beasts, and ten times worse than beasts; 
 and they cause more crime and misery than 
 all else. But it is no matter, Harry, what 
 it is, ale, wine, or spirits, a drunken fellow 
 is to me disgusting ; to sit and sot until his 
 brains are gone, it's horrid ! If men would 
 only quench their thirst and stop, how much 
 this world of ours would be the gainer !' 
 
 ' It Avould,' Wells said ; ' that's certain, 
 John.' 
 
 ' Have you much cider fruit, Harry ?' 
 
 /Well, rather thin,' said Wells; 'but 
 lots of perry-pears and table-fruit.' 
 
 ' Were you at market Saturday ? I did 
 not see you ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I was,' said he ; ' but I only just 
 rode in, John, to see some people, and left
 
 36 ROYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 directly. Wheat was a trifle better, and so 
 were oats.' 
 
 ' Have you seen the otter yet ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Harry ; ' but we tracked him, 
 under the osier-bed there by the river. 
 His holt is there, I think. I like those 
 otter-hounds, they are so musical.' 
 
 ' So musical ! So melancholy, eh ?' said 
 Archer. ' Have you engaged your pickers?' 
 
 ' Yes, for Tuesday week. I shall have 
 this time, I think, about seventy, with neigh- 
 bours. The crop is light, so it Avon't be 
 long about.' 
 
 ' The better chance for price, old man ; 
 they'll fetch the more.' 
 
 ' They might perhaps, John, as they are 
 bad in Kent. That's good for us.' 
 
 'Is your old drier, Nathan Styles, still 
 with you ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Wells ; ' but I fear for the 
 last time. His asthma kills him. Where 
 were you yesterday.*
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 37 
 
 ' 0, out by Pirtoii,' said Archer. ' There 
 is a strongish litter there ; and so we had a 
 merry rattler with the cubs, and killed.' 
 
 ' It was a splendid morning for you, 
 said Wells. 
 
 ' Yes, delightful ; and we both enjoyed 
 the ride there immensely. Charlie Burton 
 came in over night to see me on some busi- 
 ness, and so he stayed, to make sure of 
 being up in time, and joined us. He has a 
 rare mare this time, Harry, and means to 
 cut us down, the lot of us.' 
 
 ' Is Parker back ?' said Wells. 
 
 ' j^o, not yet ; he is out with Miller. 
 They mean to pick up Collins on the Avay. 
 He started off with Johnson and a block, 
 with great ideas of doing wondrous sketches ; 
 but he left it for the hammer and the box, 
 and took to plants and stones. Plardy is 
 back, and Lee ; they are up in town.' 
 
 ' Hammond, I think,' Wells said, ' is 
 stiU there, is he not ?'
 
 38 ROYSTON EOOKERY. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Archer. ' I have to write to 
 him soon, by the bye. I promised I would 
 go with him to Richmond, but by mistake 
 I fixed a hunting day, the eighth, and there 
 is a meet then that I would not miss for 
 anything. Dick Gale is with him. They 
 have a place at Brompton, and ride to- 
 gether each day in the park for constitu- 
 tional. I mean to try persuasion when I 
 do write, touching the pleasure of a day 
 Tfith hounds, to see if they will join some 
 Hunt or other. With means like theirs, 
 they ought to drop a fiver, and mount the 
 pink at once, and go like men. The Row, 
 to my mind, Harry, is, I think, so tame ! 
 Just as an exercising ground it is well 
 enough, to show your horses and to show 
 yourself, and to advertise your tailor ; but it 
 will not, like fox-hunting, make men manly, 
 that you know, Harry; though many an 
 hour,' said Archer, ' have I sat and watched 
 them there, and longed for a gallop, when
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 39 
 
 mooning home with Carey-street behind 
 me. If that wretched old Kewtye ever 
 found the blotting-pads, he would see his 
 own phiz there some hundred times.' 
 
 ' Is your uncle all right now ?' said 
 Wells. 
 
 ' 0, yes ; he is civil enough,' was the 
 reply ; 'but he was crusty for two or 
 three years. You see, he did not like me 
 giving him the slip ; but the fact is, Harry, 
 I got home-sick, and I was bound to do it ; 
 and I am heartily glad that I did leave the 
 law behind me.' 
 
 ' You would have been too honest for a 
 la^vyer, John,' said Wells. 
 
 ' Don't abuse the profession,' replied 
 Archer, ' or I will charge you six-and-eight- 
 pence for advice. All men must live. Your 
 doctor gets a guinea at a gulp, but your 
 poor lawyer lets you have three nibbles at 
 him for the same !' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Wells ; ' and when he can't
 
 40 EOYSTON EOOKERY. 
 
 keep you nibbling any longer, lie swallows 
 you up bodily, and it's all over with you !' 
 
 ' Ah, well,' said Archer, ' there are ne- 
 cessary evils in this world, John.' 
 
 ' Yes, gradational,' was the reply ; ' and 
 I know one of the worst,' said Wells. 
 
 ' Be quiet,' said Archer. ' Why don't 
 you go cubbing?' 
 
 ' I cannot spare the time, my dear fel- 
 low,' said Wells, ' or I should like it well 
 enough. I don't,' said he, 'see much of 
 them till close to Christmas. You like cub- 
 bing ?' 
 
 ' I do,' said Archer. ' With but a small 
 " field," and few out, we are quiet, and free 
 from that constant hallooing and noise, and 
 all that aimless galloping that leads to the 
 hounds being maimed and yourself can- 
 noned by some random rider, who, once he 
 is outside a horse, thinks he has hands, 
 and is, of course, a horseman. Before the 
 fences thin you have some chance ; but
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 41 
 
 when dayli<^ht breaks through them, to aid 
 the cautious ones, then you have half the 
 tailors in the country with }^ou to override 
 the hounds and make a noise. You often 
 see men out, as you know, Harry, not hold 
 of reins, but hanging to them for their very 
 life, thinking if they have but their feet in 
 the stirrups up to the hilt, after the manner 
 of them, they are safe while leather lasts.' 
 
 ' You get the freshness of the morning, 
 John. I think myself that is so very jolly ! 
 I am always up at four,' said Wells, ' and 
 out at iive, and so I know it.' 
 
 ' You are !' said Archer. 
 
 'Yes; at six we breakfast, and at nine 
 have lunch, twelve dinner — ^just one hour 
 to it. Come, help yourself,' said Wells. 
 
 ' I wish I could turn out,' said Archer; 
 'but it is only on hunting mornings that 
 I am up so early; just while the cubbing 
 is about, or the fixtures are distant, and 
 now and then in the summer, when I am
 
 42 EOYSTON EOOKEEY. 
 
 at Hazelwood ; but then, as you say, it is 
 indeed very jolly. So fragrant, cool, and 
 still ; Avith scarcely a sound, but the sing- 
 ing of the song-birds or the ripple of a 
 brook : and every bit of turf dew- wet and 
 sparkling. I like to see the game, too, 
 about the fields and the spinnies ; the 
 coveys and the pheasants, and the rabbits 
 and the hares, that come out in the white 
 fog that hangs on the meadows to feed 
 with the Herefords. You seem well off 
 for game up here?' 
 
 ' Too many rabbits, John ; for they play 
 the deuce with that wheat by the wood.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Archer ; ' I saw, as I rode 
 up, that you have a strijD off there as if it 
 were mown.' 
 
 '0, yes, 'the WTctches! Down in the 
 hop-yard hedgerows and the orchards we 
 do keep them under pretty well,' said 
 Wells ; ' but in the covers we cannot touch 
 them; not, however, till the people at the
 
 THE DAWX OF DAY. 43 
 
 Hall have shot there ; and by that tune 
 the keepers have generally contrived to 
 put them in their pockets. The deuce is 
 in the rabbits, I think, John. I like them 
 in the larder well enough ; they are good 
 in any form ; but on the land they are 
 awful nuisances. You'll stay, of course,' 
 said Wells, ' and take pot-luck with us ?' 
 
 'If really pot-luck, John, I will,' said 
 Archer. 
 
 ' Well, drink your perry then, and 
 let's turn out, and we'll look round the 
 things, and give the dogs a run.' 
 
 'That's right,' said Archer; 'I should 
 like to do so. I see you have had some 
 fresh white-faces — some Herefords — since I 
 was here.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Wells, 'and they look 
 kind too. Have you Tanner with you, 
 John, and old Bobby nowV 
 
 ' Yes,' said Archer, 'and as big a scamp 
 as ever, is old Bobby.'
 
 44 KOYSTON EOOKEEY. 
 
 ' Now, tlieii, you dogs !' cried Wells. 
 ' Hi ! Tip and Pepper ! We will go out 
 this way, John, to stop Countess barking; 
 for though Ross has shut her in the stable, 
 she would hear us, and then the old lady 
 would want to join us ; and those dogs are 
 awfully jealous of her because I notice her. 
 Ah, here you are, you rascals! Come 
 along,' said Wells, as Tip and Pepper came 
 to them, bounding and barking. 
 
 So they went off with the dogs, and 
 saw the stock and things, and the loose 
 boxes, and the cart stables, and had a turn 
 about the grounds till dinner. 
 
 And after dinner they both went out 
 again, and strolled about the garden and 
 the terrace, and gossiped with the old 
 fellow there who was trimming the cut 
 yews, and who had worked ' on the place, 
 sir, man and boy, a matter o' sixty year, 
 come Candlemas,' and who was still 'heart- 
 well.' And then, as Harry would insist on
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 45 
 
 dusting out the arbour in the hollies — 
 'just for a. bit of a smoke, you know, for 
 company' — they sat there ; with the wooded 
 hills before them, and the hop-yards and 
 the orchards below them, that sloped to 
 the meadows in the flat, that were dotted 
 with the cattle, and willowed by the river. 
 And it was very pleasant there ; for the 
 light breeze that was blowing brought them 
 the cry of the ringdoves, and the Avhite 
 weir at the mill sent its murnuu' up to 
 them. 
 
 And Tip, who was on the scamp as 
 usual, went off hunting in the shrubbery ; 
 but Pepper, who was lazily inclined, lay 
 by the old sun-dial, with his head between 
 his paws, blinking at the pigeons on the 
 Isiwn, that were pluming their snowy fea- 
 thers, and cooing there by the ruined foun- 
 tain, that made such a pleasant splashing 
 sound, as its jet, still there, fell on the lilies 
 in the basin. And the lazy old dog would
 
 46 EOYSTON EOOKEKY. 
 
 keep dropping asleep and dreaming, to 
 wake and whimper, and so startle the 
 pigeons, and make them fly up to the ivied 
 barn, to flutter down again Avhen he set- 
 tled, and strut about him. 
 
 And Wells and Archer chatted together 
 there for some time about horses and hops, 
 and stock and crops and markets, and then 
 of hounds and hunting, and the early fix- 
 tures ; when, ' John,' said Harry, ' how 
 about the run? You said you would tell 
 me all about it after dinner, and what you 
 and Charlie did amongst the cubs. Pirton 
 I think you met at, did you not ?' 
 
 'Yes,' said Archer; 'Pirton Spinnies. 
 They are beyond the church, near the farm 
 where you bought that bay cob. They are 
 snug and quiet, with famous lying, and 
 vdth. lots of feg ; and being down in a dip, 
 are just the very places for a good litter.' 
 
 'You must have started early,' said 
 Wells, 'for that quarter?'
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 47 
 
 'We did,' said Archer; 'soon after four, 
 for the fixture was at six.' 
 
 ' I wish I had been with you.' 
 
 ' I wish you had,' said Archer. ' Friend 
 Charlie was delighted with the ride.' 
 
 'A novelty to him, John, to see the 
 day break.' 
 
 ' Yes, it was, indeed ; but he thoroughly 
 enjoyed it, though he did rub his eyes when 
 he started. 
 
 'I think,' said Archer, 'those early 
 morning skies are beautiful, when they 
 lo'ose daylight in ! I like to see them as 
 they flash the daffodil, that ripples through 
 the gray and breaks it up ; and see the 
 forms it makes, that blend together and 
 then shape to clouds — rose, dun, and violet 
 — and each one underlit ! 
 
 'We watched it as we rode, trembling 
 along the sky from east to west — you, 
 earliest of birds, must see it frequently — 
 and we saw the blue come in, and noticed
 
 48 ROYSTON ROOKERY. 
 
 how it crept along and widened, and scat- 
 tered all the clouds to little bits, gold-edged ; 
 that, as broad daylight came, vanished to 
 vapour in a sky all blue ! I only wish that 
 I could see it oftener ; I envy all who can 
 get up so early. 
 
 ' We reached the spinnies as the clock 
 struck six,' said Archer, ' and found the 
 pack there, with George and Dick the 
 whips, and Will Warne the huntsman, and 
 the Red- Coat Eunner, who was by Will's 
 Avhite horse, playing with the hounds. And 
 we were soon joined by a score or so of 
 others, well mounted, but in the rough, as 
 we were also ; and then the Master came.' 
 
 'Kerrison?' said Wells. 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Charles,' said Archer ; ' he has 
 been Master, as you know, for very many 
 years, and has always been popular. "Good- 
 morning, gentlemen," he said, as he rode 
 up with some friends, and lifted his hat to 
 the lot of us, and looking as young as ever,
 
 THE DAWN OF DAY. 49 
 
 though he must be getting on a bit. " I 
 am glad to meet you. We are just a hand- 
 ful I see, and so right in number for a good 
 rattling spirt along the meadows. Now, 
 "Warne," said he, " let's put the youngsters 
 in; it is six o'clock, time's up! To give 
 the cubs a chance, we will draw ' down 
 wind.' " 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OUT WITH THE CUBS, AND A KISS IN THE 
 
 HOP-YAKD. 
 
 * You found, of course,' said Wells. ' I know 
 the fixture ; it is safe for a litter, and a cer- 
 tain find.' 
 
 'We did,' was the reply; 'for before the 
 hounds had been ten minutes in, leaves 
 rustled and sticks cracked, and then there 
 was music ! And as the old hounds,' said 
 Archer, ' dashed merrily along through the 
 fern and bracken, the youngsters faced the 
 briers pluckily, not shirking them as they 
 did at first, when it was all new to them 
 and their hides were tender, but tearing 
 away through them like good ones, and as 
 wild as wolves.'
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 51 
 
 'I suppose they are good hounds, are 
 they not ?' said Wells. 'They had some of 
 them here " at Avalk" at Nelson's farm, and 
 also at the Hollies, and they seemed good 
 hounds to me ; I often saw them.' 
 
 ' I think they will make good hounds,' 
 said Archer. ' Old Charlie was delighted 
 vnth them when with me yesterday. "What 
 a lot of resolute young^beggars these hounds 
 are!" said he. " The way they searched that 
 underwood, and plunged into the thickest 
 of the cover, was splendid. Scratches won't 
 cow them, I can see; they're game, and rare 
 good plucked ones, and they will soon face 
 gorse." 
 
 * We found that the one Ave had up was 
 the vixen; so the hounds were stopped,' said 
 Archer, 'and turned again to cover, when 
 very soon the whole place seemed alive, for 
 we had the lot up — every cub a-foot. But 
 as one of them chanced to meet a hound, 
 and stopped to wonder at the strange en. 
 
 UWVtRSlTY Of laiNOr.
 
 52 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 counter, he got quite bewildered, and the 
 hounds were on to him ; for others seeing 
 him, they settled to him, and so he bolted. 
 
 ' Charlie and I,' said Archer, ' were wait- 
 ing in the meadow keeping a good look-out, 
 when, as we heard the hounds running in 
 the cover, we saw the cub come scrambling 
 down the bank throu2:h the briers, and 
 three hounds after him, almost at his brush, 
 that neither of us had much time to move, as 
 the rest of the pack came leaping through, 
 close to them. Luckily, however, our horses 
 were quiet, and they behaved well, though 
 the hounds were tumbling against their legs 
 and giving tongue lustily. We did not stir, 
 of course,' said he, 'until they were all clear; 
 but then we made play up the meadows, 
 where the pace was so sharp that we almost 
 feared they would ''chop" him. The cub, 
 though, held his own for several fields, 
 when, thinking perhaps that he would be 
 safer with his mother, he turned,' said 
 Archer, ' to try to get back into the cover,
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 53 
 
 but meeting the hounds, it Avas soon all 
 over with him ; his days were ended !' 
 
 ' Poor little beast !' said Wells. 
 
 ' I don't myself like killing cubs,' said 
 
 Archer ; ' but what are you to do ? You 
 
 cannot help it. A fierce old dog-fox always 
 
 dies so game, that with the excitement pity 
 
 is stamjDed out; but those soft, woolly, 
 
 flocky little dogs have all such winsome 
 
 ways, and look so sharp with their bright 
 
 beady eyes when they are at play — I have 
 
 often watched them — that if they could be 
 
 spared, I should be glad. However, as 1 
 
 know, Harry, that can never be, I will not 
 
 get sentimental on the matter ; for though 
 
 « 
 it is not like your "fixture" hunting, still 
 
 what we get is good, and I would not miss 
 it. It also is, as you know, very useful in 
 making horses clever at their fences, and 
 quietly behaved, too, with the hounds. Be- 
 sides,' said he, ' there is so much to see in 
 our fine woodland country in the autumn,
 
 54 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 when every hedgerow tree is flushed with 
 colour, that sympathy Avith cubs is not ob- 
 trusive; yet thinking of them makes you 
 pity them, if only that they are young.' 
 
 ' You see,' said Harry, pointing to the 
 woods, 'that yew-tree yonder, just up the 
 gully, where the wood dips down ? Well, in 
 the sandstone rock there, there's a litter. I 
 went up there the other night with Mann, 
 the keeper, who showed them to me. But 
 the vixen winded us, though we were hid- 
 den ; and so she turned and laid her rabbit 
 down under a bush, and slinked away into 
 the brush and stayed there, and would not 
 show again. The cubs, though, came out 
 as the moon rose, and played and rolled 
 about, ay, just like kittens. 
 
 ' They are very pretty,' said Wells, ' and 
 w^ere their scent less strong, they would do 
 for pets, for ladies' muffs.' 
 
 'They are jolly little things, certainly,' 
 said Archer. ' Well, after we had killed the
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 55 
 
 cub, we went back again to the cover, to 
 try if we could bolt another ; and they were 
 soon on the move again. But they would 
 not bolt, and we had nothing but up and 
 down work and round and round, the pack 
 dividing. At last, by dodging. Will got the 
 hounds to settle to the one he thought was 
 the strongest of the lot, and they soon forced 
 him out through the fence at the upper 
 end and along the banks, he holding them in 
 check, so as to give the cub a start. 
 
 ' We soon,' said Archer, ' found that he 
 was a game one, for he went straight and 
 well, and things looked promising, and as if 
 we should have a good gallop by the river. 
 But after we had raced him for five or six 
 iields, that had each of them tidy fences, and 
 at one of which,' said Archer, 'your friend 
 Simkins got a fall, he turned for a dingle 
 that was handy; but failing to hang there, 
 he made off up the country, as if he knew 
 there were some big woods beyond it;
 
 6G OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 and then some of the fellows began lark- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' You get pretty well of that, no doubt,' 
 said Wells. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Archer, ' always in the 
 cubbing, and rather too much of it. Tom 
 Harber was one of them. He backed his 
 horse against the miller's — Ben Branson, 
 who was out — "to fairly follow hounds, and 
 to take all fences, no gates allowed ;" Charlie 
 and I to see that neither shirked. So put- 
 ting the steam on,' said he, 'away they 
 went, as if they had tops and cords on in 
 the season. 
 
 ' The betting at first,' said Archer, ' was 
 even by the "field," then five to three was 
 laid against the miller, whose horse, had up 
 from grass, that good red roan, broke into 
 heats, and so brushed half his fences. Tom 
 picked his up at every place he came to — he 
 is a neatish fencer, as you know — and chaffed 
 the miller, who quite good-humouredly
 
 A KISS IN THE IIOP-YAED. 57 
 
 joined in the laugli we had, although it was 
 against him, and still kept on. A check, 
 though it was hut a short one, put matters 
 right, however, for the roan went better 
 when the hounds hit off again. 
 
 'We were now o:ettin2: to some stiff en- 
 closures,' continued Archer, ' and so we bet- 
 ted on the pair for the first fall. The miller 
 tried it, but his horse recovered ; when Tom, 
 who fancied he could cut him down and 
 stop him, spurred his black mare — that 
 blood, hot-tempered one that broke the 
 hurdles.' 
 
 'I know,' said Wells; 'a wild one.' 
 
 ' Well, that soon made her fractious ; so, 
 getting the bit in her teeth, she took her 
 fences racing, when, catching some stiff 
 rails, he got a cropper ; the miller clearing 
 them as Tom lay under. 
 
 " First fall to Harber !" said Ben, as he 
 went on laughing, and raced for the next 
 fence, and went over it.
 
 58 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 "Look out, old fellow," said Tom, as he 
 picked himself up and mounted, " I shall be 
 bound to catch you yet !" ' 
 
 ' What fun !' said Wells. ' I wish I had 
 been with you.' 
 
 'Then they both went at it as if they 
 meant it ; Charlie and I,' said Archer, 
 ' ridino; all the while well alono-side them 
 to keep score, the cub still in wind and the 
 hounds going fairly, when the miller fell a 
 whacker ! 
 
 " A fall in flour !" cried Tom ; and then 
 he fell too, 
 
 " And better times, my boys ; a fall in 
 meat !" cried Ben, as he mounted again and 
 rode off like a good one. before the grazier 
 could get in the saddle again, and shouted 
 at the next fence, " State of market : hops, 
 gentlemen, you see, are somewhat lower," as 
 Pearce, the buyer, who was chaffing Ben, 
 caught some big sticks and purled.' 
 
 * He would leave his mark,' said Wells ;
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 59 
 
 'for he is no feather-weight. Just stop a, 
 minute, John ; who is that man clown the 
 bank yonder ? He is on a bay there, look- 
 ing at the hops. 0, I see ; it is the new 
 tenant up the hill. Ah, you may look, my 
 man, but they beat yours. Yes, John.' 
 
 ' Well, while all this larkino; was 2:oinf]: 
 on,' said Archer, ' the youngsters took their 
 share with the old ones, and went well, 
 and hunted fairly every yard of ground. 
 As the cub was a strong one, and gave us a 
 good gallop, we each thought we were in 
 for a smart run ; but all at once we heard a 
 noise of singing and laughing. So Charlie 
 cried, 
 
 " Push on, miller, and stick to him, gra- 
 zier ; and Avare hops, mind, when we get in 
 the rows! We are near a hop-yard, for I 
 hear the pickers. It is all but over ; for if 
 he ventures there his fate is sealed, they 
 will soon settle him !" ' 
 
 'It was early, too, for picking,' said
 
 60 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 Harry. ' They have none of them com- 
 menced this side the water.' 
 
 ' I thought so too ; but it was true, sure 
 enough,' said Archer, ' for as w^e turned 
 round a corner, there they were, down in a 
 hop-yard, and all singing merrily. They 
 looked so picturesque,' said he, 'grouped or 
 scattered about as they were, and making 
 bright bits of colour all about there ; with 
 wreaths of blue smoke floating to the woods 
 from their fires. It was quite a bit for 
 Johnson.' 
 
 ' The right one, too, to render it,' said 
 Harry. ' He painted some of our lot once,' 
 said he, ' and did them famously ; so true 
 and natural. Hop scenes are too often but 
 fancy pictures, as you know, John ; and all 
 those unstudied attitudes of rustic beauty 
 that you meet with altogether ignored for 
 show and prettiness and posings ; elegant 
 maybe,' said he, ' but wrong, as they of 
 course clash with all surroundings, and de-
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YAKD. 61 
 
 stroy the very character of such scenes. 
 And you see the same thing in gleaning 
 and haymaking pictures; how clean and 
 neatly dressed, and what a town look they 
 make the figures have! It is wrong of 
 course.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Archer said, ' and comes of studio- 
 painting, and working more from models 
 than from nature, I hold with models, 
 though, for single figures, and also to cor- 
 rect form ; and they are often necessary to 
 work in detail in your out-door studies ; but 
 where there are many figures, as in hay and 
 harvest fields, attitudes and groupings, to be 
 truthful, must be marked-in carefully on 
 the spot, and with all those lights and sha- 
 dows well made out that show the time of 
 day and where the sun is. A practised 
 hand, perhaps, may mask a studio bit 
 by piecing it together cleverly; but nine 
 times out of ten,' said Archer, ' you may 
 tell it, either by fancy work or some queer
 
 62 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 fancy sky badly thought out, and at vari- 
 ance with the shadows.' 
 
 'You very often see it on the walls,' 
 said Wells, ' in lots of galleries.' 
 
 ' You do,' said Archer, ' and, much to 
 my surprise, it passes muster. 
 
 ' Well, to return to the hounds, Harry,' 
 resumed Archer. ' They had crossed a lane 
 as we caught sight of the pickers, and were 
 now slanting over a grass patch, and making 
 for the hop-yard ; and they all went right 
 into it, as we watched them. And then 
 "from scent to view" was but the work of 
 a moment ; for the people shouted and com- 
 menced running, up and across and in and 
 out the alleys, as if they wanted to catch 
 the cub themselves. So poor pug was soon 
 settled — they mobbed him ! For as we can- 
 tered up along the adland an old hound 
 fastened, and the youngsters had him; the 
 miller tearing in with waving hat, and cry 
 of " Kill to me, you two — one fall to spare !"
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 
 
 as Harber showed at the bottom of the 
 rows. Of course the place was all alive by- 
 then ; for each had so much to say, and all 
 were talking.' 
 
 'A pity too,' said Harry, 'that they 
 " chopped" him. 
 
 ' Here's Benson's man,' said he. ' What 
 does he want, I Avonder? Excuse me, John. 
 
 ' His master has some beans to sell,' said 
 "Wells, returning. ' He says, will I ride 
 round and see them, they are worth the 
 money. So I will go up to-morrow, John. 
 If they suit, it will save me going to town ; 
 and if not, I Avill meet you at the Fox on 
 Saturday. Do you know whose hops those 
 were where you killed the cub?' 
 
 ' The name was Mowbray,' said Archer. 
 
 'Ah, Mowbray of the Green,' replied 
 WeUs. 
 
 ' He seems, I think, a very decent fellow ; 
 he made us all go up,' said Archer, *and 
 did us well.'
 
 64 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 ' He has some early sorts,' Wells said, 
 ' that ripen quickly. I heard that he would 
 pick a week before us. How did they look?' 
 
 ' 0, fairish to my thinking. I asked the 
 man who cut them; he said, " Well." But 
 were Charlie here, he could tell you more 
 about them ; they cribbed him !' 
 
 *They did? Well, that is good!' said 
 Harry, laughing ; ' I am very glad they had^ 
 him. How did they manage it?' 
 
 ' Well, in this way,' said Archer : ' when 
 he dismounted he save a man his mare to 
 move about, and then he strolled amongst 
 the pickers for a chat, while the hounds 
 rested, as all the people went to w^ork 
 again as soon as the scurry was over.' 
 
 ' Women or girls ?' said Wells. 
 
 'A few of them were women, but the 
 greater part of them,' said Archer, ' were 
 tall, well-gro^vn, saucy-looking girls, with 
 sunburnt faces, who swarmed round him 
 as he got amongst them, and cried,
 
 A KISS IN THE IIOr-YAKD. (j5 
 
 " Come, I say, you sir, just you pay your 
 footing; it's a rule, you know; so if you 
 don't hand out, we'll all soon crib you !'' 
 
 " What's that?" said Charlie. " What do 
 you mean by that ?'' making believe he did 
 not know a bit. 
 
 " Why, kiss and tumble you, and that 
 right well, and soon, the lot of us ; as you 
 will see, unless you tip us just to drink 
 your health. You will now, Avon't you? 
 Do, there's a darling !" said one girl coax- 
 ingly, with a meaning look, that seemed to 
 us to be brimful of mischief 
 
 ' I missed that lot,' said Wells. 
 
 'You did,' said Archer; 'but Charlie 
 bo}', who rather likes a frolic, said, " No, I 
 won't ; I would sooner stand the kissing ;'' 
 thinking she did not mean it, though she 
 said it. " So now then, girls, come on ! 
 Come, who's the first?"' 
 
 ' That's just like him !' said Wells, 
 
 ' " Why, you," she cried, and gave his 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 lips a smacker! " So in you go, young man, 
 head over heels. Now kiss him, girls," said 
 she, "as if you loved him. You don't get 
 such a young man every day !" And with a 
 jerk she fairly tipped him over, down into a 
 crib that was half filled with hops, and 
 close beside them.' 
 
 ' Poor Charlie !' said Wells. 
 
 ' So there they held him,' said Archer, 
 ' laughing as he fought, till each — near fifty 
 of them — had bent down and kissed him ! 
 And that so furiously, they stopped his 
 breath.' 
 
 ' That's good !' said Wells. 
 
 'When just as he began to beg for 
 mercy, the farmer came across, with whip 
 in hand, and cried, "Just stop that, 
 will you, you young hussies? Confound 
 your bodies ! How often have I said I 
 won't alloAv it, 3'ou fast young pieces ? 
 Just help him out at once, and make him 
 tidy, or else I'll stop your apples when you
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 67 
 
 go, you cheeky varmints!" So they very 
 soon had him out,' said Archer. 
 
 'What,' said Wells, ' did Charlie say to 
 it?' 
 
 ' 0, only laughed,' said Archer ; ' though 
 the hops had stained him finely. 
 
 " A rule, they say," said he. " 0, never 
 mind them. Here, lassies, is some silver 
 for you. Now be off," said Charlie, as he 
 wiped his coat with his handkerchief, and 
 pitched a couple of half-crowns to them ; 
 that brought several of them on their knees, 
 all of a heap together, upsetting a crib as 
 they scrambled for it. 
 
 " And here's, then, one for me, you nice 
 young man. I likes the look o' you ; you're 
 nice, you are!" cried one great girl, who 
 kissed him, and then scampered.' 
 
 ' AVhat fun !' said Harry. ' How did you 
 come ofi*?' 
 
 ' Why, took the hint,' said Archer, ' and 
 tipped them, and so I escaped. We chaffed
 
 68 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 old Charlie pretty well about it; but he 
 vowed we were only jealous of his luck in 
 getting such a lot of kisses without the ask- 
 ing. 
 
 ' As all were now on the move up to 
 the house, with Will and the whips and the 
 farmer, and the rest of them, we followed,' 
 said Archer, 'with Sir Charles, who had 
 stayed along with his friends to see the fun 
 and to treat the pickers. 
 
 "You have a lively lot there, Mow- 
 bray," said he, as we overtook them. " I 
 thought our friend, Mr. Burton here, would 
 have been kissed to death. I do not think 
 they are troubled with inucli shyness." 
 
 " 0, not a bit of it, Sir Charles," said the 
 farmer; " they're brazen madams, and cpite 
 above my hands, I can assure you. All 
 my work, that it is, to stop 'em prigging, 
 although we give 'em as many apples as 
 they can carry when they go home again 
 after picking's over ; besides some of the
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP-YAr.D. GO 
 
 rosiest from the heaps to thread, and han^^ 
 in long loops, three deep, round their necks, 
 confound 'em ! They go back through the 
 towns, Sir Charles,'' said he, " rigged out 
 that way; with bundles on their heads as 
 full as they can be, and with sprays of hops 
 about 'em, picked from the hedges, or else 
 begged from us, or, just as likely, perhaps 
 taken without With your leave or By your 
 leave; for they're awful imps, are hop 
 girls; awful!"' 
 
 ' We give ours hojDS,' said Wells, ' to 
 stop their stealing.' 
 
 ' And a good plan too,' said Archer. 
 ' Sir Charles then asked, " Where do you get 
 them from, Mowbray? They are healthy- 
 looking girls, and bright and clean." 
 
 "Most," said the farmer, " from the 
 Black Country. A woman finds 'em, and 
 brings 'em here from the pit-banks in a 
 boat, at least halfway, and then they ride 
 or trudge it ; or, if our team's at play, we
 
 70 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 send to ' the Port,' " said lie, " to meet 'em. 
 They're black enough at home amongst the 
 cinders, but here they're clean, I will say 
 that for 'em, although they're roughish. 
 
 " You'd see 'em, if you stayed till night, 
 Sir Charles — till seven o'clock — round that 
 long water-trough," he said, " as wild as 
 colts, and quite as full of antics ; scrubbing 
 away for life, with all their back-hair down 
 and half undressed, or flinging water, or 
 squatting on the steps there by Nep's ken- 
 nel — we pen him up, or else he'd nip 'em 
 tight ! — to comb their long locks out a bit, 
 and brush 'em tidy; for let who will be by, 
 they're not a bashful lot, that's very cer- 
 tain ! 
 
 "They all sleep there," said Mowbray, 
 " in the barn ; their noise is awful. I 
 often have to crack the whip at night, and 
 sing out, ' I'm a coming !' Then they stop. 
 The only quiet ones we have," he said, 
 "are neighbours j but they go home." '
 
 A KISS IN THE HOP- YARD. 71 
 
 'Something like my lot, John,' said 
 Wells. ' Bad is the best. I hope though 
 this time they'll be rather better.' 
 
 ' " Xow here we are, gentlemen," said 
 Mowbray, as we reached the house,' con- 
 tinued Archer, ' " Come in, please ! We have 
 some decent cider, and some perry. Have 
 what you like; you're welcome. Come here," 
 he said, " some of you men, and move the 
 horses round, and keep 'em clear of hounds, 
 but don't you ride 'em. Get some chilled 
 water and some gruel, Tom, and let 'em 
 have it ; and, Dick, Avipe 'em down a bit, and 
 comb their manes out. Now, gentlemen !" 
 
 " Thanks, Mowbray," said Sir Charles, 
 "you're very good; but we must not tres- 
 pass too much on your kindness." 
 
 "All right. Sir Charles," said he, " we'll 
 have 'em seen to, they'll be the fresher ; for 
 it's a good long way now till you reach the 
 kennels. There's water handy if the hounds 
 will lap it."
 
 72 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 
 
 'So we went into the house,' said 
 Archer; ' a large and roomy one, and with 
 a kitchen well hung with haras and sides 
 of bacon; Will and the whips remaining 
 with the hounds, and having their lunch 
 outside on the pitching. The wife, it ap- 
 peared, was busy in the dairy, butter-mak- 
 ino-; but the dauofhters, who seemed to be 
 three nice homely girls, soon made them- 
 selves useful, and got a spread for us. A 
 round of beef and a ham, and some nice 
 brown-bread and cheese, and a capital meat- 
 pie, and some chawl, all in a plain way, 
 and so we enjoyed it, as although it Avas at 
 that time but eight o'clock, we had break- 
 fast at four, and the fresh air since then had 
 given us both an appetite.' 
 
 ' I think you fell on your feet at the 
 right place,' said Wells. 
 
 ' I think we did,' said Archer.
 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A QUEER CUSTOMER — MORNING IN THE 
 VALLEY. 
 
 ' Yates,' said "VVells, calling from the ar- 
 bour to the old man who was clipping, 
 ' don't cut those yews too close ; and see 
 that all the loppings are burnt before you 
 go home, or they will be pitched aside some- 
 where, and settle my cows. Shy a stone at 
 that rascal Tip, Avill you ? he will play the 
 deuce with those holl}hocks. Come here, 
 you sinner,' cried "VV^ells, calling to him, 
 'and settle yourself down a bit by old 
 Pepper.' 
 
 But there was no come back in that 
 doir; for he left the lawn and treed the cat 
 immediately, and made vigorous attempts 
 to get up the ivy and have her in the
 
 A QUEER CUSTOMER. 
 
 branches. 'What a varmint it is!' said 
 Wells ; • he has been coached out of those 
 hollyhocks before to-day. Confound the 
 dog, I don't want him to spoil them!' 
 
 ' No,' said Archer, ' they make a nice 
 line of colour along the terrace, and you can 
 see them above the wall as you come up 
 the bank ; they come in well betAveen those 
 two wonderful peacocks.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Wells, ' those are Yates's 
 handiwork; he is a dab hand at that sort 
 of thing. He wants sadly to get to work at 
 the yews round the moat; he says, "They'd 
 look mighty fine, master, cushioned and 
 bolstered ;" but I tell him, John, they are 
 out of bounds, and look best there as they 
 are.' 
 
 'So they do, Harry,' said Archer, 'though 
 here they are right enough and in keeping 
 with the timbered work and the chimneys. 
 Well,' he continued, ' as I was saying, we 
 had a good lunch there, and after we had
 
 MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 75 
 
 done ample justice to it, we thanked the 
 ladies and our Avortliy host for their kind- 
 ness, and mounted to go home, as the pack 
 had started, when a rough-looking fellow 
 in a velveteen jacket, and with a whip in 
 his hand, came up by the fold-yard to the 
 green in the front, and touched his hat to 
 the farmer. 
 
 "It's o' no manner o' use, maister,'' said 
 he, going straight into the middle of his 
 grievance; "I mun gie him up; for a bigger 
 brute I never had to do with. He's snapt 
 the martingale and comed roight over, and 
 thray times I've slipped him. Try some 
 one else's neck — I dunna moind it ; for 
 though he be a good horse, he's a nipper, 
 and never, I think, can be broke o' rearin'." 
 
 " Is that all that's the matter with him?'' 
 said Charlie. 
 
 "That be all, sir," replied the fellow; 
 " and enough too, as I reckon. But p'raps 
 you fancy, young sir," said he to Charlie,
 
 76 A QUEER CUSTOMER. 
 
 "as you can brake? My business 1 dunnow; 
 
 no, I don't." 
 
 "Well, don't get riled, my man, I only 
 spoke ; but if your master here will trust 
 me on him, I'll show you," Charlie said, 
 "how you may manage him, and break him 
 of that stupid rearing trick. How have 
 you ridden him," he asked ; " with good 
 sharp spurs and snaffle?" 
 
 " Sharp spurs and snaffle !" sneered the 
 man ; " no spurs and curb. I guessed at 
 once how much you knew about it. If 
 you be foolish enough to try the spurs, 
 young sir, you'll find he'll very soon settle 
 you; for he'll break your neck, as he'd break 
 mine if I was such a born fool as you think 
 
 1 be. Sharp spurs indeed! If you comed 
 out with the cakes, I stopt in till the loaves ; 
 I warn't half baked, nor horned yester- 
 day. No, no," said the man, shaking his 
 head, " whatever else he be, Jem baint no 
 fool!"'
 
 MOENING IN THE VALLEY. 77 
 
 'The breaker, then, got savage on the 
 matter?' said Wells. 
 
 ' It seemed so,' Archer said. 
 
 ' "Then," said Charlie to the farmer, "if 
 you will risk the horse, I'll risk the neck ; 
 and all that I shall want is a snaffle and 
 spurs. No martingale or curb, no stirrups 
 or a whip ; merely a snaffle, Mr. Mowbray, 
 and long spurs with sharp rowels in them ; 
 mine are blunted. They set one's tops off, 
 but I never use them. I hate a scratched 
 horse," said Charlie, "and a horse that needs 
 them. Come here, my boy," he called out 
 to a youngster, " and hold my mare a bit.'' 
 
 'The farmer, T, and all of us,' said Ar- 
 cher, 'tried hard to turn him^ but we could 
 not. We told him,' said he, 'that he would 
 break his neck, and that it was a foolish 
 thing to meddle with such an animal. But 
 as he seemed so stiff about it, the horse 
 was fetched, and the curb exchanged for a 
 snaffle.'
 
 A QUEEE CUSTOMER. 
 
 'What sort of a horse was he?' asked 
 Wells ; ' a Cruiser brute ?' 
 
 ' No, a big good-looking horse,' said 
 Archer, ' well up to weight, bay, with black 
 points. Taking his own spurs off, he put 
 on the pair they brought him, which,' said 
 Archer, ' were regular prickers ; and he 
 then led the horse down into the straw-yard 
 and mounted him slowly and deliberately, 
 the brute putting back his ears, but stand- 
 ing still. Then,' said Archer, 'he slipped 
 the stirrups off and threw them down, so 
 as to be safer if the horse fell over, just 
 felt his mouth, and then — looked out for 
 squalls.' 
 
 'But he could not stick him in that 
 way,' said Wells. 
 
 ' He could and did,' said Archer ; ' for 
 he has, as you know,' said he, 'such a 
 splendid grip ! I knew him, Harry, lose a 
 stirrup once with hounds, and go on too 
 Avithout it to the finish.'
 
 MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 79 
 
 'You did?' said Wells. 
 
 ' Yes, and the same with girths ; a state 
 of things that is just ten times worse,' said 
 Archer. 
 
 ' I should think so indeed,' Wells said. 
 
 ' It was two seasons ago, and they snapt 
 right through as he was going over a fence ; 
 enough, you'll say, to pitch him on his 
 head. They were some that had been used 
 with a buck-jumper, and so had got stretched 
 and frayed ; but for more than twenty 
 minutes, for I saw it,' said Archer, ' he 
 held a line and kept his place with hounds 
 solely by grip, the saddle never turning or 
 the ends catching, as he did his fences. We 
 had some big things too that day, that took 
 some doing.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Harry, 'I will give him best, 
 John. I should think he was stiffish the 
 next day.' 
 
 'No doubt he was,' said Archer, 'with 
 all his muscles tense; but he would not own
 
 80 A QUEER CUSTOMER. 
 
 it. Well, the first thing that he did was to 
 let the horse walk, and, much to our sur- 
 prise, he found him steady. Before he had 
 ridden him, however, twice round the yard,' 
 said Archer, 'he was up in the air in a mo- 
 ment; but just as he seemed like coming 
 backwards — and we looked for Charlie to 
 slip oiF him — he bounded like a shot and 
 droj^ped again, through spurs sent home.' 
 
 'The deuce he did!' said Wells. 
 
 ' Then he tried the trick again,' said 
 Archer, 'with the same result; a straight 
 dart forwards, then a snort and stop, paw- 
 ing with his foreleg and shaking his head, 
 as if he scarcely knew what to make of it. 
 Each time the horse reared, the spurs were 
 sent in, which made him bound and drop. 
 Then Charlie patted him. In half an hour, 
 Avith many a shake of head, that horse,' 
 said Archer, ' walked from the straw-yard 
 to a field, and quietly ; and then went round 
 it without once rearing or attempting to.
 
 MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 81 
 
 caressed and petted all the way by Charlie, 
 who put him through his paces to a gal- 
 lop and sat him splendidly, no horse going- 
 better.' 
 
 'I could not have believed it, John,' 
 said Harry. 
 
 'Nor I,' said Archer, 'if I had not seen 
 it. " There, then," Charlie said, as he rode 
 up to us, "follow that plan, my man, and 
 you will find it answer. Lower your hands 
 when he comes up on end, and send the 
 spurs in once and once only, but quickly 
 and sharpty, and so save your neck. You 
 see, Mr. Mowbray," said Charlie, turning to 
 the farmer, " in going forwards he is bound 
 to drop ; he cannot tumble over when you 
 ' shoot' him. 
 
 "But mind one thing, my man," said 
 Charlie to the breaker, " you must not spur 
 him till he is in the air. You want to trick 
 him; so all the time, besides, talk gently to 
 him, as if he were the best-behaved horse 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 A QUEEIl CUSTOMER. 
 
 out. You thus deceive him ; and he will 
 soon think that when he comes up on end 
 in that way he hurts himself, because your 
 kindness, with the hurt, will puzzle him ; 
 and if you continue it, it will so bother 
 him," said Charlie, "that it will altogether 
 throw him out of count, and he will very 
 soon give it up entirely. You try it, man, 
 for what I say is right ; you will com- 
 pletely cure him in a week, if you will, 
 that's certain," ' 
 
 'How did the fellow take it?' said Wells. 
 
 'Like the magpie,' said Archer; 'he said 
 but little, but he thought a deal. "I have 
 had some brutes to manage before to-day, 
 Mr. Mowbray, for one friend or other — be- 
 sides," Charlie said, " I have bred for years, 
 and I break my own, and in a lot of young- 
 sters you do get some most awful tempers — 
 but I have never yet failed," he said, " to 
 make them handle well and safe to ride; 
 and except, perhaj)s, in such a case as this
 
 MORNING IN THE VALLEY. S'd 
 
 I never punish, and here no more than you 
 have just seen. I have no faith in it, Mr. 
 Mowbray," said he, " nor ever had." ' 
 
 'He is right enough there, John, as I 
 have found,' said Wells. 
 
 ' Then,' said Archer, ' Charlie got oiF the 
 horse and gave him up to the man, and 
 put on his own spurs again and mounted 
 his mare, and then he and the rest of us 
 started for home, he telling Mowbray that 
 if the man failed, to send the horse over to 
 Boscobel, and he himself would cure him. 
 You know it, Harry, for I think you have 
 been there ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Wells, ' I have ; and it is a 
 nice place too. It was formerly the War- 
 ren ; but that was years ago.' 
 
 'Many years,' replied Archer; 'in the 
 old people's time. We overtook the hounds, 
 and gently trotted down by the river-side, 
 and got back home at twelve, Charlie well 
 pleased that he had come with me.'
 
 84 A QUEER CUSTODIER. 
 
 ' I should think so,' said Wells ; ' quite 
 a jolly morning ! He will have the horse, 
 you'll see ; that man won't manage him ; 
 his nerve is gone — not worth a button, 
 John. I wish,' said he, as they crossed the 
 garden for the house, to have a chat with 
 the aunt, 'you would stay the night, old 
 fellow; the Doctor promised to look in this 
 evening.' 
 
 ' No, not to-nio-ht,' said Archer. 
 
 But he did so ; for after tea, time passed 
 so pleasantly, the evening glow had van- 
 ished from the ceiling, and gray come be- 
 fore the}^ thought that it was even sunset; 
 so, as the moon would not be up till ten, 
 his horse was bedded. 
 
 And when the Doctor left after supper 
 to go to his patient on the common, and 
 then, if she was comfortable, to ride to his 
 home in the village, they turned out with 
 him to see how the moon looked, and to 
 have a sniff of the cool night air and to
 
 I\H)EN1XG IN TBE VALLEY. 85 
 
 open the gates for liiiii. And as they came 
 back again under the ai)ple-trecs in tlie end 
 orchard, and stayed there as the sound of. 
 his horse's hoofs died away, to listen to the 
 owls hooting in the woods just over the 
 water — for those glorious old woods, w^here 
 the undergrowth was as high as your head 
 and the light only came with a flicker, w^ere 
 on either side of the river, and went billow- 
 ing away for miles, dipping as the hills 
 dipped — they saw the young moon rising 
 over the treetops, paling as she rose. 
 
 So they sat there for a while on the 
 wicket, listening to the weir. And there 
 w^as a rustle in the hedgerow where the red 
 dead leaves were lying as a stoat moved 
 amongst them ; and the dry sticks in the 
 orchard cracked brittle on the trees as they 
 were hit l)y the apples that dropped ripe 
 into the grass. And a fox crossed the 
 meadows belowthem; for they heard amongst 
 the sheep the bell of the bell-w(ither, that
 
 86 A QUEER CUSTOMER. 
 
 made them look there, and they saw him, 
 like a lengthy brown dog, running by them. 
 Then, as the wind stirred the bushes 
 that were beside them, and sent a little 
 shiver amongst the leaves on the oak over 
 them, and on the elm that was upon the 
 bank, the murmur of the weir came up to 
 them with a moan, that rose and fell again 
 as the night wind went sighing up the val- 
 ley, lifting the leaves as it went. 
 
 And as they went on up to the house 
 the vault of the heavens looked high, and 
 the stars in the blue of it golden ; for the 
 night was a frosty one, and it would be fine 
 on the morrow. And when the white fogs 
 crept on by the water and the wood-shades 
 deepened, the silence of night filled the 
 valley; for all were asleep at the farm, and 
 the birds in the ivy were quiet. 
 
 The next morning, after an early break- 
 fast, John Archer was ofi* betimes; while 
 there was a coolness in the air and a catch
 
 MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 87 
 
 of frost on the meadows, as it showed now 
 by the river, for the nights got cold there, 
 and while the clematis and the hopbine 
 in the hedges glistened with dew and gos- 
 samer. And the blue mists that were up the 
 valley hid the hills, and rolled in light 
 wreaths from the woods and hollows. And 
 the lanes were still and quiet, and the dust 
 upon the roads Avas unmarked by wheels ; 
 and the only sounds to be heard Avere the 
 caw of the rooks and the songs of birds ; 
 and the smoke, with a fine day promise, went 
 straight up between the woods from the 
 cottages that were dotted about there. 
 
 It was a morning that suited him, fresh 
 and nice, and with all that sense of breezi- 
 ness that you get from the rustle of the 
 boughs and the falling of the leaves ; for 
 they Avere fluttering in yelloAv flakes from 
 the trees, winnov^'ing to the red ones, or 
 drifting across with the breeze to drop 
 lightly into the brambles that lay clustered
 
 88 A QUEER CUSTOMEE. 
 
 in the hedges there, purple with black- 
 berries. 
 
 And as he left the lanes for the hills, 
 and rode up through the woods by the 
 winding paths — where the light chequered 
 them, and the shadows of the trees fell 
 upon them — he thought of Nature's bounty 
 and her beauties, and of all those unbought 
 pleasures worth the having that she ever 
 lavishes upon those who love her. And 
 Avhen he had reached the top of the wood, 
 he looked down into the dingles, and he 
 saw far below him, between the long 
 branches of some spreading yews, the val- 
 ley mellowing in the morning light, as the 
 sun shone, and blue burst through the sky. 
 
 So getting off a while to rest his horse, 
 he sat there, looking down into the valley 
 throuoh the tree-trunks, and in the silence 
 drank in all its beauty. And as he watched 
 the shadows creep out from the hedgerows, 
 as the early farm -sounds came up to him
 
 MOKXING IN TPIE VALLEY, 89 
 
 — with what pleasure few know but those 
 who love Nature as he loved her — and saw 
 the sunny sweeps of meadow aftermath that 
 were splashed Avith the purples of the saf- 
 fron - flowers, he noticed how the long- 
 lengths of hop-yards that were beside them 
 — whose tint at sundown is a sight to see — 
 looked amber in the light, and with what 
 a sheen the Avillowy river that was flicker- 
 ing in the sun shone so far away. 
 
 And he also noticed on the uplands, 
 where but so short a time ago white barley 
 swayed and golden corn was bending — for 
 the harvest always fell late there to the 
 sickles of the reapers — how pure in the 
 morning light were the tints upon the stub- 
 bles, and how well they came in between 
 the rich browns in the woods, where the 
 trees were russeting, and how good was the 
 backing to them of the woods bej^ond, that 
 went sloping high up the hills with their 
 colours — their grays and their blues and
 
 90 A QUEER CUSTOMER. 
 
 their purples — till they swept to their crest 
 or went over them. 
 
 Then, as he mounted again to go home, 
 as a light breeze rose, soft gray clouds that 
 were white-edo;ed moved through the blue 
 over him, and their shadows chased the 
 sunshine in the valley. And seeing it as 
 he did there, framed by the olive-green of 
 the trees that w^ere before him, he felt the 
 beauty of it. 
 
 And then, in his own quiet way, John 
 Archer rode on thoughtfully to his home 
 at the Grange.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN AND THE 
 HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 
 
 'Good-morning,' said Oliver to Andrews, 
 as they met by the Fox hotel in the 
 county town, and rode into the yard to- 
 gether. ' AVhy, what became of you, Ted, 
 the other day; we never saw an inch of 
 your countenance, old fellow, after we left 
 the gorse — did you come to grief?' 
 
 'I did,' was the reply, 'and intense grief, 
 over some stiff rails down by Furze-hill, 
 where I had a regular purler and a lost shoe ; 
 with hounds going like steam, and no black- 
 smith handy. So I got thrown out, and I 
 turned for home; which, considering it was 
 the first day of the season, and there was
 
 92 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEX. 
 
 a splendid "field" out, was certainly a nuis- 
 ance. You had a very good run, George, 
 I hear.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Oliver, 'we had, for an hour 
 and forty minutes, with only that slight 
 check by the park-palings, through those 
 beggarly sheep getting out ; but which, by 
 the bye, as letting you up amongst us, was 
 a good thing for you. 
 
 ' Well, come in,' said he, as they left 
 the stables and turned into a corridor 
 bright with greenery ; ' what are you going 
 to have ?' 
 
 ' 0, some of the old sort, I suppose,' said 
 Andrews, ' some bitter ; there is nothing 
 better, I think. Have you sold your hops ?' 
 
 ' All but a few j^ockets ; but I am in no 
 hurry, for prices are up, and mine is a 
 clean sample. I wish I had not sold,' said 
 Oliver; ' they will fetch more money yet. 
 " Farnhams" are middling, and there are 
 but few " Olds" left.'
 
 THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 93 
 
 Entering 'the bar,' which, as it was 
 market-da}^, was filled with farmers, gra- 
 ziers, hop-growers, and others — most of 
 them local men, and manj^ of them friends 
 or acquaintances — they shook hands with 
 some and nodded to others, and then, as 
 the hunting men amongst them continued 
 to discuss 'the good thing they had on 
 Tuesday,' the conversation merged from 
 hops and crops to hounds and horses. 
 
 Sitting about there — a light and airy 
 room, and large and lofty, with cosy nooks, 
 pot-ferns and flowers, and couches — were 
 many of the best men in the district ; that 
 being, on market-days, the great meeting- 
 place, the resort of man}^, and a lounge 
 for all. 
 
 And it was there that, on the last day 
 of each week, gossip was retailed, reports 
 floated, prices fixed, and the runs of the 
 week talked over. It was there too that 
 the Hunt-dinners were held ; the landlord,
 
 94 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 genial and gentlemanly, and great in grey- 
 hounds, being a large subscriber and a 
 thorough sportsman; as was also his son, 
 who, mounted well, went well. 
 
 But while the hunting men stretch it 
 as to fences, and the dealers stretch it as to 
 price, it will be well to give here a few 
 words about the two friends, who, seated 
 in a quiet corner, were looking over the 
 papers, and deep in the mysteries of the 
 ' Country Markets.' 
 
 Oliver, a good-looking young fellow of 
 about five or six and twenty, was a hop- 
 grower, well and favourably known in the 
 district as ' a good sort and a straight 
 goer'^ — a summary of character meaning 
 much^ — and resident, as w^as his friend 
 Andrews, in a small hamlet that Avas pretty 
 and picturesque, and twelve miles distant 
 from the station. Both were in easy cir- 
 cumstances, and Andrews the richer ; he 
 being the son of a Manchester merchant.
 
 THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 95 
 
 who was reputed to be wealthy, and known 
 to be charitable. 
 
 The eldest son, Robert, was in business 
 with his father, and this one, the second 
 son, Edward, or 'Teddy,' as they called 
 him, being a good shot and fond of hunt- 
 ing, the old man took a small farm for him 
 at Honeybrook, in the Teme valley, and on 
 the Herefordshire side of the river ; a ham- 
 let that was backed by high hills and 
 faced by wood and water ; and the farm was 
 a fruitful farm, and it had just enough 
 land about it to give employment to his 
 son, and so keep him from being idle. Aud 
 he liked Honeybrook ; for, as he said when 
 he came to settle at it, 'it was really a jolly 
 little place, and so snug and quiet.' 
 
 And so it was; for it lay in a hollow low 
 down in a long drip in the valley, with 
 wooded hills overlooking it; and with hop- 
 yards sliding into it; and it was so hidden 
 by old hawthorns and apple-trees, and
 
 96 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 clumps and garden growths, that you had 
 to come upon it all at once, which made 
 it the jollier. 
 
 For the way into it dropped suddenly 
 between high banks, that were rough and 
 tangled with gorse and foxglove roots, 
 and with fern and brambles; w^here the 
 rabbits stayed and looked at you, and the 
 birds sang on as you passed into the sha- 
 doAV of the limes, listening to the bees. 
 
 And at the bottom of the bank, in the 
 sunlight — for the trees ended there — was 
 the church; where the road turned short 
 round to the left by the rookery, and you 
 got such a splendid bit of open country 
 and river scenery, across the big pool at 
 the court-house, past the island where the 
 flag flapped. 
 
 The church too was an old one, heavy 
 with ivy, and gra}^ and weather-stained, 
 and you went down steps into it; and as 
 you came quietly down the bank leading
 
 THE HAMLET OF IIONEYBROOK. 07 
 
 your horse, you saw that the trees framed 
 it, and that the square tower and the great 
 yews stood out clearly against the high 
 elms, under an arch of sky, and with a 
 backing of cornfields and copses, with hills 
 behind them that stretched away up the 
 valley, graying as they went; and there was 
 a deep-blue distance beyond them that you 
 caught as the white pigeons swept across 
 it when they flew from the tithe-barn to 
 the lich-gate, to coo and flutter there, 
 until the schoolgirls came to swing and 
 play about the mounting-block, and to caw 
 at the rooks squabbling in the rookery. 
 
 And also at the bottom of the bank was 
 a brook — you could hear the ripple of it 
 })efore you saw it — tliat, though it was made 
 to dip there under the road, to leave all dry 
 at the church, and to make foam-falls in 
 the shrubberies, yet did pretty much as it 
 liked up the village. So, as it had the lane 
 to itself, it made it ' a Avater}- lane' for a mile 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 or more — except a bit of a strip on the 
 high bank above it, just for the foot-people 
 — from where it came out of the woods and 
 through the meadows, and brought the 
 trout with it from under the big stones in 
 the dingles, where the light was twilight, 
 from the close boughs meeting. 
 
 But shallow as the brook was, there 
 were some good trout in it ; for you could 
 see them poising or darting for the banks 
 as you rode splashing through it. For 
 after you got beyond the church and the 
 farm buildings, and j)assed the ivied house 
 where the sparrows were — and where they 
 let you know they were — and the half- 
 timbered houses with the cut yews and 
 the box-borders, and the red-brick place 
 with the bushed laurustinuses and the dove- 
 cot, the road so narrowed that it became 
 all brook ! 
 
 So you just swung your legs up on each 
 side of the saddle, to save spottling your
 
 THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 99 
 
 stiiTup-irons, and let your horse enjoy the 
 coolness of it, as Avell as yourself, as you 
 ' lolloped' along, chatting to the old women 
 in the gardens, or gossiping with the young- 
 sters paddling in the brook for primroses, 
 or whatever happened to be growing there 
 on the banks beside it. 
 
 Not that they wanted them, by any 
 means, as all the banks were j^ellow with 
 them, or bright with the other flowers that 
 in their turn grew there ; but the having to 
 go into the water for them was a something 
 they ought not to do, and so they enjoyed 
 it, as you could see when they scampered 
 out — the young monkeys! — and put their 
 stockings on, laughing as only hearty and 
 happy children can laugh. You could hear 
 their joyous little screams so long after you 
 left them, that you would turn a time or 
 two in your saddle, thinking they were 
 near you. 
 
 And a very jolly little brook it was
 
 100 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 too; for, except at flood-time, it was shal- 
 low enough to have plenty of tinkle about 
 it, for it had lots of twistings and rip- 
 plings where the sandstone ridged it. And 
 u|) above it, and on either side of it, were 
 some thatched cottages — old gray ones; and 
 some gardens and orchards; and a little 
 farm or two, where there were fowls about ; 
 and a Avheelwright's, where the path 
 widened ; and some cherry-orchards, with 
 some red-tiled cottages, and some bee- 
 hives by them; and a dismal-looking old 
 place, with some poplars round it, that was 
 shut up, because it was 'haunted of a ghost, 
 sir.' 
 
 All the Avay up, indeed, was pretty; for 
 the women there were great hands at holly- 
 hocks and gillies, and rose-bushes and scar- 
 let-runners, that thc}^ trained by the privet- 
 hedges for the passers-by to see, and to give 
 them an excuse for a gossip with them 
 whenever they had the chance of it ; for
 
 TIIK IIA:MLET of irONEYBllOOK. 101 
 
 the old dames would stand, scissors in 
 hand, by the bushes, making believe to be 
 trimming them. 
 
 It was a nice - smelling place too, all 
 about there ; for what with the violets and 
 the sweetbrier, and the beans and ' the 
 blossom,' and the honeysuckles and the 
 meadow-sweet, and the whiffs of hay, each 
 in its season, there was no lack of sweet 
 scents in that village. 
 
 But tlie best of it all was up at the end 
 there, where the road branched off at the 
 foot-bridge to go to the next hamlet ; and 
 where you looked across the dingle to the 
 big fox-cover, where they always ' found,' 
 or up the long stubbles to the grass-lands, 
 that sloped to the sky and the white clouds. 
 For it was there that the orchards were 
 thicker and the fruit was the finest ; and 
 when they Avere heaped all over with their 
 red and their white blossom, and thick 
 with bees, and loud Avith the hum of them,
 
 102 ANDllEWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 the scent that was there then was a thmg 
 to be remembered. 
 
 Altogether it was an old - fashioned 
 fruity little place, where the farmers sold 
 hops and cider, and the cottagers eggs 
 and ' posies.' For they went to market on 
 Saturdays, and they thanked the Lord 
 other days ; and though they did ' putt' 
 their legs up ' o' Sundays, and think'd o' 
 nothin',' when their old rector y>^as ex- 
 horting them, they certainly were a 
 devout ])eople, for they* ' thanked the 
 Lord' for everything, from hop - bines to 
 honey. 
 
 If Bella Birch was got to school after 
 a boxing, or Jane Styles had her flowers 
 ' cheapened,' or Theresa Simpson's young- 
 est had to be revaccinated, or the ' rampa- 
 gious' donkey was pounded, or the reliev- 
 ing officer's pony lost 'altogether,' they 
 Avere that contented sort of people that 
 they were equally grateful — so ' thanked
 
 THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 103 
 
 the Lord' for all and everything, as ' be- 
 came them' as Christians. 
 
 And they had their manners also ; for 
 they ' sir'd' the pig-killer, and ' good man'd' 
 the postman, and did hat-in-hand to the 
 parson, who, poor man, being seventy- 
 eight and short-sighted, often mistook their 
 'obeysance' for asking alms, and would 
 potter on with, ' I never give money to beg- 
 gars — bad plan, bad plan ; give you some 
 meat thou":h : come round, come round.' 
 
 It was a very early place too; for ex- 
 cept when they had company at the court- 
 house, all the villagers looked to snore at 
 eight in the winter and nine in the sum- 
 mer, ' reg'lar like ;' but Avhen ' the com- 
 pany' came, they willingly robbed them- 
 selves of their rest to 'see the carriages' 
 and ' the gentlefolks.' Hence, going to bed 
 so early, they were early risers ; and they 
 brushed the dew off the grass, and they 
 made their mark in the meadows ; for they
 
 104 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 were up betimes, and were out with the 
 lark ; which, as one of them observed, as he 
 perhaps thought of his younger days — he 
 was only sixty - three, and it served the 
 juvenile old boy all the day after to tell 
 it amongst the mowers — was better than 
 beinir out 'for one.' 
 
 o 
 
 And ' Teddy' went amongst them, and 
 liked them, and they liked him ; and they 
 testified publicly that 'his head^vas screwed 
 on, and his heart in the right place ;' which, 
 besides being a satisfiictory state of things 
 anatomically and mechanically, at once put 
 him right with the whole village ; so right, 
 in fact, that he never was known after that 
 to be short of wasp-cake or whipcord ; the 
 two things they always asked you to have 
 of them when the}' really did like you — 
 the first to 'tice the fish, and the second to 
 tickle the animal in the dog-cart. 
 
 So he made up his mind to stay there; 
 for, as he said, ' It's a nightingale place, my
 
 THE HAMLET OF IIONEYBIIOOK. 105 
 
 dear fellow, for the meadows are cowslip 
 ones ; and the hmes are filled with violets, 
 purple and white ones, plentiful as daisies ; 
 and there are primroses on the banks, and 
 wild flowers in the woods, so thick there 
 that you crush them as you walk. And 
 "the blossom'' is glorious — cheny and 
 plum, and pear and apple — and its smell 
 delicious ; and the hops are splendid ; and 
 the fishing and the shooting and the hunt- 
 ing there is each first -rate.' So that, as 
 all there appeared to him to be super- 
 lative, he could not well do less than be 
 satisfied. 
 
 But as he knew but little of farming when, 
 eighteen months previously, he took to it, 
 his father employed a bailiff to superintend 
 the farm for him and to see to the tilling. 
 Oliver, therefore, whose own farm lay but 
 three miles from there— just on the outskirts 
 of the parish — kindly offered his services, 
 when they met one evening at the rectory,
 
 106 ANDREWS OF CONEY GKEEN. 
 
 in tlie way of supervision and general in- 
 formation; so that ere long the two near 
 neighbours became firm friends, and hunted, 
 shot, and fished together; and their sisters, 
 Loo and Cissy, had but few secrets from 
 each other. 
 
 With such companionship, and Avith the 
 benefit of his friend's experience, the bailiff 
 was parted with at the year's end; and the 
 little farm, ' Coney Green,' only a hundred 
 and forty acres, was now, and had been for 
 the past six months, entirely managed by 
 Andrews himself, who, from constantly as- 
 sociating with the farmers of the district, 
 was fast getting into those plain, sensible, 
 and homely ways' which, causing a whole- 
 some horror of debt, made them the manly 
 men they were — sturdy, free - feeling, and 
 independent ; able and willing to pay their 
 way, ' if so be it pleased God the rain didn't 
 beat 'em.' 
 
 Barely two-and-twenty, with excellent
 
 THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 107 
 
 health and spirits, an iron constitution, and 
 an even temper, hospitable to a degree, and 
 with the means for hospitality — no wonder 
 that Andrews, or, as he was familiarly called 
 by his friends, 'Teddy Andrews,' was well 
 liked. But with sound sense and good 
 general knowledge he had yet a marked 
 simplicity of manner that indicated credu- 
 lity, and that often laid him open to the 
 designs of the crafty. More than once had 
 he been ' well bitten ;' and more than once 
 had George Oliver counselled caution in the 
 varied dealings of buying and selling inci- 
 dental to his pursuits. In horses he was 
 especially weak, fancying, like many others, 
 that because he had hunted for two seasons, 
 all the ' points' of a horse must necessarily 
 be known to him. 
 
 Honest himself, and thoroughly straight- 
 forward, he ever thought others were the 
 same ; and ' wearing his heart upon his 
 sleeve,' he never suspected duplicity, never
 
 108 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. 
 
 imagined deceit. To use a West-country 
 phrase, 'he showed his cards, and they 
 trumped his trick; he opened his mouth, 
 and the man jumped down it:' a duplex 
 saying for the same thing — too little re- 
 ticence and too much belief; a combination 
 of circumstances that has brought many a 
 man to grief. 
 
 Returning now to the other occupants 
 of the room, their conversation continued 
 in an animated strain for some time ; then, 
 each going out on his own business, they 
 separated, to meet again at ' the ordinary' 
 up-stairs, or later in the bar, so as to have 
 a chat together before riding home.
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS — EXPERIENCE 
 PAID FOR. 
 
 ' Have you any more to do ?' asked Oliver, 
 as they met again in the evening; for it 
 had been a busy day with him, and he was 
 later than usuaL 
 
 ' Only,' was the reply, ' to call about 
 some fish I ordered, to see if they have sent 
 it to the carrier. I shall be back a2:ain in 
 ten minutes, and then,' said Andrews, ' I 
 am ready when you are.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Oliver, ' I don't want to be 
 too late home ; so I will order the horses, 
 Ted, and wait in the yard.' 
 
 Half an hour later they were in the 
 saddle, and with a splendid evening before 
 them for their journey home.
 
 110 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 Passing under the old high tower of the 
 cathedral, they went along the quay up to 
 the bridge, that took them out into the 
 open country, and thence to districts full 
 of rich pasture-land and hops and orchards. 
 And they rode on by the old-fashioned gar- 
 dens in the suburbs, and reached the out- 
 skirts. 
 
 And as they passed the quaint houses 
 there, with their long avenues and their 
 pigeon - boxes and their stately trees, the 
 evening glow had spread across the land- 
 scape, and had caught with its golden light 
 the country-seats that lay around there, 
 belted by copses, and with water by them. 
 And they went on, by pastures and stubbles 
 and plough-land, to by-lanes and commons, 
 Avhere the gorse was a mass and the gipsies 
 were numerous. Then, checking their horses 
 as they got near a hill, Andrews broke 
 silence thus : 
 
 ' Where did you go to when I came to
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. Ill 
 
 grief? I don't know if they have it in the 
 Herald.'' 
 
 ' Kept to the scent, and went on, Ted,' 
 said OHver. ' The hounds,' said he, ' soon 
 crossed the road, and springing the fence 
 together, they raced along the meadows as 
 mute as mice, till suddenly they dipped 
 and showed again ; and then, as they "broke" 
 well in line, their chorus came to us most 
 musically. We knew by that some brook- 
 work was before us, and that pace was 
 needed, for it was Overdale — a racing bit, 
 and always many in it. I don't suppose 
 you know it, Ted,' said he. 
 
 ' What, Overdale ? Few people but 
 know that,' said Andrews, ' either by sad 
 experience or by name. The former, George, 
 would certainly have been mine had not 
 I been thrown out.' 
 
 'You missed a bath, old fellow, I be- 
 lieve,' said Oliver. 'Its banks are honey- 
 combed from being washed by very fre-
 
 112 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 quent floods, and they have straight sides, 
 just like a railway cuttino;; so that where 
 they are not slanted for the cattle, it is no 
 easy matter to effect a landing. The last 
 time we had it,' said he, ' seven out of 
 twelve — though they were first-flight men 
 — wei'e into it, and under, and bobbing 
 about like big floats in the Avater ; so that 
 will tell you that it takes some doing.' 
 
 'Yes,' Andrews said, 'I have heard it 
 is a clipper.' 
 
 ' As we got near it,' continued Oliver, 
 ' Stevens — on the gra}^ — gave us "a lead," 
 for he was on his water-jumper; and cle- 
 verly he did it. Burton went next, and 
 safely dropped the chestnut — his hot one — 
 and Warden after him, along with Archer. 
 Then Wells, then King, one down, one in ; 
 I next,' said Oliver, 'and missed a grassing, 
 " Beauty" stumbling. Just as we were getting 
 into stride again, thud comes Fred Col- 
 lins right against the bank, and vanishes ;
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOK. 113 
 
 Jem Griffin too, who took it at the widest. 
 And after we had landed, and turned in our 
 saddles,' said he, 'to see who got in and 
 who got over, we saw lots rushing at it as 
 hard as they could pelt ; glad, no doubt, to 
 have it soon over. Some did get over, but a 
 lot got in ; but as there was a stiff line of 
 rails in the pasture, that needed both eyes 
 and hands, it prevented our watching 
 them. But afterwards, on "counting up 
 the noses," we made but sixteen total. The 
 rest — a good large "field" — being brooked, 
 or roadsters ; for they never reached us 
 till we had killed our fox. 
 
 ' You will see the line we took ; it is in 
 the Field. I met the postman as I came,' 
 said Oliver, ' and looked. He took the 
 papers on, though, with the letters ; but 
 you shall have it when Ave send to-morrow. 
 Loo has some things she has worked, Ted, 
 for your sister.' 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Andrews; ' Cissy will be 
 pleased. Mucli stiff, George ?' 
 
 'Well, yes,' said he; 'but a splendid 
 country, with doubles and good rails, and 
 brooks and bullfinches. 1 got my full share, 
 Ted, in size and "nasty" places, so I was 
 thankful; still for the pickers there were 
 donkey fences, which some I know negoti- 
 ated calml}^, as if they really thought them 
 worth the doing. Just fancy!' George said. 
 
 ' There certainly are men who'd jump a 
 thistle, and cast about how they shall best 
 get over some small gutter ; and }'et come 
 out,' said Andrews, 'with the hounds, to 
 say they do so. It is most laughable.' 
 
 ' It is,' said Oliver, ' wild in the lanes, 
 but frightened in the fields. Macadam 
 courage coupled with fence-fever. Such 
 men should always come out with a crup- 
 per, and hold on to it stoutly. 
 
 'The view from here,' said he, as they 
 reached the brow of the hill— Crookthorpe
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 115 
 
 Hill — ' I always think is so fine. I do not 
 wonder at people pulling up to look at it. 
 Even now, sloping awa}^ as it does for 
 miles and miles, though half its charms are 
 hidden in the duskiness, it is very beauT 
 tiful,' said Oliver ; 'don't you think so, Ted ?* 
 
 'Yes,' said Andrews; ' it is almost as 
 fine as that from Harry "Wells's place, or 
 from the hill by Manor Wood.' 
 
 ' Triey meet there shortly,' said Oliver. 
 ' John Archer is going ; but it is too out- 
 lying a fixture for me, at least just then. 
 It is a long way from his place ; but I think 
 he intends getting up to Fred Collins the 
 night before, so as to be handy for it.' 
 
 ' I. have never been there with hounds,' 
 said Ted ; ' but we had a picnic there hist 
 summer — that is, June twelvemonths — and 
 I thought it then,' said he, ' a very jolly 
 place, and the view magnificent.' 
 
 But, as George Oliver remarked, the 
 view from where they were Avas then, as
 
 116 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 they saw it, even in the dusk, ' ver}' beau- 
 tiful;' for so golden was the sky with even- 
 ing glow, the wooded hills looked black 
 that closed the valley, giving a grandeur to 
 their long length of sky-line; and just above 
 it was a flight of rooks, flying from their 
 feeding-grounds straight home to roost. 
 And down beneath it were deep purple 
 shadows, cut by white fog, that, rising to a 
 level from the meadows, looked like a river. 
 And as the gold got green, as Andrews 
 and Oliver rode onwards, some glow-worm 
 lights shone out upon the hills from cot- 
 tages; and lower down the slopes some 
 larger lights were seen as well, from farms ; 
 and in the hollows they were also twink- 
 ling, and thickening around a red one — • 
 the forge-fire that was down in the village 
 below, where the blacksmith was busy ; for, 
 as they came down the hill, the}' could both 
 hear the clink on his anvil. 
 
 As the green got gray, and they went
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 117 
 
 by the mill in the flat, where the big pool 
 and the willows and the half-sunken boat 
 and the putchins were, it was all silent 
 there — silent as the wheel; for work was 
 over, and the bats were skimming. 
 
 Then the gray got blue, and the stars 
 came out, one by one, as Ted and Oliver 
 trotted through the valley ; and by the time 
 they had reached the woods the sky was 
 thick with them. And they rode on there 
 along the bridle-paths, scaring the owls 
 and starting many a rabbit in the glades 
 that were dusky beneath them. And when 
 they emerged from under the tall trees, 
 and passed from the darkness of them into 
 the white light upon the hills, it was indeed 
 beautiful; for the moon was rising, and 
 the yews and the hawthorns were throwing 
 their long shadows on the turf, that lay 
 white in the moonbeams. 
 
 And they rode there silently in the 
 moonlight, for the turf was too soft and
 
 118 MOONLIGHT OX THE HILLS. 
 
 springy to give back their footfalls; and 
 the only sound they heard was the clank of 
 the little gates as they passed through them. 
 
 And at the end of the hills they again 
 passed into the darkness of the woods. And 
 when, at last, they left them, and began to 
 dip down to the lanes for home, the moon- 
 light had fallen upon the valley, and they 
 could see, as the moon caught it, the white 
 streak of the river through the trees in the 
 hedgerows ; for the fog in the meadows was 
 thin, and it lay lightl}- on the grass. And 
 they hastened on along the lanes between 
 the copse-bordered banks to the cross- 
 roads ; and there they pulled up, as their 
 ways diverged, Andrews's farm. Coney 
 Green, lying to the right, and Oliver's, the 
 Brook Farm, three miles to the left of it. 
 
 'Will you come round with me, old 
 fellow, for a pipe ?' said Andrews. ' It won't 
 take you long, and you need not be back, 
 you know, till after supper.'
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOE. 119 
 
 'No, not to-iiiglit,' said George; 'it is 
 much too late, and 1 have to pay the men, 
 for I Avas short of change this morning, 
 and they will be waiting for me ; and Loo 
 will too. Xot to-night.' 
 
 ' Well, mind and come on Monday then, 
 to dinner, and see just what you think of my 
 new purchase — a baj^, my boy — a fizzer !' 
 
 ' What, on the deal again ?' said Oliver. 
 ' Who is the biter ?' 
 
 ' Implying by that term,' said Andrews, 
 ' that I am " bitten." Why, Murby. I met 
 with him on Tuesday out with hounds. He 
 rode up when I came to grief, and pointed 
 out a smith's shop, and went with me ; so 
 we rode home together.' 
 
 ' And made a deal, of course ?' said 
 Oliver. ' Catch Murby civil if he can't 
 gain by it!' 
 
 ' Yes, made a deal,' said Ted ; ' a good 
 one too !' 
 
 '0 youth and innocence,' said George,
 
 120 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 * how art thou victimised ! No greater "do" 
 than he, Ted, walks in shoes. What was 
 the figure ?' 
 
 ' Thirty.' 
 
 ' And what the purchase?' 
 
 ' A cob, a dappled bay ; round as a 
 barrel, and with four black legs ; strong as 
 an elephant, and a splendid stepper — a 
 noted trotter. He looks like carrying me 
 right well to market, and giving most upon 
 the road the go-by.' 
 
 ' By running clean away the first time 
 you try him !' 
 
 ' Not so, friend George ; now don't you 
 be severe. He is good with hounds too, and 
 knows the stone-wall business. He was with 
 the " Cotswold" in the Bredon country.' 
 
 'And all that lot,' said Oliver, 'for 
 thirty?' 
 
 ' Yes, with half-crown out, chop-money.' 
 
 '0 Teddy, Teddy, '"sold" again art 
 thou, 3^ou helpless innocent! Why, Jemmy
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 121 
 
 Miirby is the " deadest nail" in all the 
 country, that everybody knows; and so 
 might you have heard. Why, he would 
 even do his father in a deal for twopence- 
 halfpenny, and think it clever !' 
 
 'Wait, wait, George, wait,' said Andrews; 
 ' you have not seen the cob — you will find 
 you are mistaken just for once.' 
 
 ' I only hope, for your sake, that I am ; 
 I fear I am not. A good bay cob,' said 
 Oliver, 'like that, is Avorth, ay twice that 
 sum, as park-hack for some gentleman in 
 town, to daily pound along for constitutional 
 in Rotten-row, Thirty pounds indeed ! If 
 he is sound, a dealer would give fifty. 
 When can I see him?' 
 
 ' 0, to-morrow.' 
 
 'Well, to-morrow's Sunday.' 
 
 ' Say Monday, then,' said Andrews. ' I 
 shall be in all day. Come early, and to 
 dinner. Then see him, ride him, and try 
 him round the fences.'
 
 122 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 ' I'll look him over first.' 
 
 ' 0, lie can jump,' said Ted, ' for Murby 
 told me so.' 
 
 'No doubt he can, at sudden swipe of 
 some good double thong, and from the one 
 side of the stable to the other. Ted !' 
 laughed Oliver. 
 
 ' George, you are too bad. He is, as you 
 will iind for once, a good one.' 
 
 ' All right ; I'll see him. 0, what about 
 his tail?' 
 
 ' He has one.' 
 
 'Now has he, thouo-h?' said Georo^e. 
 ' How ever could they do it at the price ! 
 Good-night, old boy. On Monday, then, I 
 will come across and see him.' 
 
 'Well, don't forget. Good-night; and 
 come,' said Ted, ' to dinner.' 
 
 And as the noise of their horses' hoofs 
 died away, and the one sound ceased before 
 the other, through the winding lanes and 
 distance that was different, there was
 
 EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 123 
 
 stillness and silence ; for the night was 
 calm and quiet, and it was only in the 
 neighbouring woods that the least sound 
 could be heard, for the wind Avas at rest, 
 and it had not yet rustled up the valley. 
 
 But there the leaves were dropping 
 dead from the trees ; for the life had gone 
 out of them, and they had lifted their last 
 to the blue sky over them. And they were 
 drifting from the boughs to the brambles, 
 to fall into the ferns ; and to find there a 
 resting-place on moss and grass. And the 
 canopy that would be over them would be 
 of green and gold ; for the time was autumn, 
 and the ferns were flushing. 
 
 And when Monday came George Oliver 
 rode over to Honeybrook to Andrews's farm 
 there — Coney Green — that was close to ' the 
 watery lane,' and had the horse out. 
 
 ' He is not bad-looking, that is certain, 
 Teddy,' said he, as Andrews stood him, 
 with his head up, by the stables.
 
 124 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 ' Put the lad on him, and then let hhn 
 walk. 
 
 ' He is a fairish mover. Now, boy,' said 
 Oliver, 'just slowly trot him on towards the 
 gate, turn him sharp round and canter back 
 to us. 
 
 ' He goes well, certainly,' said he, as the 
 boy pulled up. 
 
 ' I told you so,' said Andrews, ' but you 
 would not believe it.' 
 
 ' Don't be too fast, Ted ; we will wait a 
 bit. Just take him on again, my lad,' said 
 Oliver, ' a good brisk trot, and at the same 
 pace bring him back again. 
 
 ' There now, jump off,' said he. 
 
 ' Ah, I thought as much ! Look here, 
 Ted. Do you know what that means ?' said 
 Oliver, picking up the horse's leg as he 
 spoke ; ' bevelled for " speedy cut ;" to hit 
 with horn, not iron. Feel here,' said he; 
 ' you see it is quite tender even now. That 
 is the place he hits when, as you say, he
 
 EXPERIENCE TAID FOR. 12i 
 
 trots out " straight and sharp." There is 
 dirt upon it. He is dear at thirty pence. 
 I would not even have him as a ""ift : for 
 when he does come down, it will,' said 
 Oliver, ' be like a shot, and without notice. 
 
 ' See here again ; my fingers are quite 
 greasy. That is the stuff they use for 
 broken knees,' said George ; ' to hide white 
 hair. Had your lad cleaned his knees, you 
 would have seen it. Here, boy,' said he, 
 ' go to the house and ask them for an iron 
 and some brown paper — the iron hot. We 
 shall see, then,' said Oliver, ' if what I say is 
 right.' 
 
 ' Well, this, I must say, is an awful nuis- 
 ance. I thought for once,' said Ted, 'I had 
 done well. He told me all about him, and 
 seemed so candid. I never thought of 
 looking at the shoeing, or getting hold of 
 him below the knee.' 
 
 ' And which you should have done,' said 
 Oliver, ' as I have told you. Here comes
 
 126 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. 
 
 the lad ; so now then, Ted, for test. The 
 grease removed, I think you will find a 
 patch, white under black. Just as I thought 
 — look there ! 
 
 ' " A speedy cutter," with two broken 
 knees. You're done, old fellow. Sell him 
 for what he'll fetch ; for if you don't he will 
 break your neck before you are ten days 
 older. 
 
 ' " Thrown out" you were,' said Oliver, 
 ' we know ; also " let in." 
 
 *' The world's a wicked one, and ' sharps' are in it ; 
 For ' fiats,' you see, are picked up in a minute !" ' 
 
 ' Put the brute in,' said Ted ; ' Cissy is 
 calling us to come to dinner.'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO — JOHNSON AND 
 KATK ARCHER. 
 
 'Well, Johnson, how are you?' said Ar- 
 cher, as he turned into the studio in Ehn- 
 tree-walk, and found his friend — as usual 
 there — busy at a canvas. 'Why don't you 
 stick that horrible creation in the corner?' 
 said he, giving the lay figure a tap on the 
 head as he passed it, that altered the bal- 
 ance of it, and stopped it peering into the 
 colour-box ; 'it is enough to startle a fel- 
 low! Here, hide his countenance, man, for 
 goodness' sake,' said Archer, as he picked 
 up a Avideawake and brought it down with 
 a bang over the face of it. ' How you do 
 work, Johnson !' 
 
 ' It is play to me, Archie,' was the reply.
 
 128 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 ' Labor ipse voluptas. When do you return 
 to the Grange ?' said Johnson. 
 
 ' 0, hi about a fortnightj I suppose,' 
 said Archer ; ' there will be some home- 
 fixtures about then.' 
 
 ' I think I shall be back about then my- 
 self, just for a week or two ; and after that 
 I must make my head-quarters here,' said 
 Johnson, ' and for some time too. I can't 
 half work at home with all those woods and 
 hills tempting one to be idle ; and I hope 
 you will come in too when you can, old 
 fellow ; for if we are to keep faith with the 
 huntsman, when the frost comes, and he is 
 oiF duty, Ave must be up at the kennels a 
 little oftener than we have been. There 
 are those hounds and the old gray that you 
 "rubbed in,'" said he, 'just in the same 
 state as they were a month ago.' 
 
 'Well, you finish them,' said Archer, 
 ' there's a good fellow ; it is to be a joint 
 affair, you know, so it will be all one. His
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 129 
 
 old woman, as he calls her, is pretty proud 
 about it.' 
 
 ' Why did you not come in to my place 
 last night?' said Johnson. ' T\yo of the St. 
 John's-wood men were there, Dick Simms 
 and Perrott ; they are down from toAvn for 
 just a day or two. Dick's picture was ac- 
 cepted, by the bye, and sold.' 
 
 'Where at— the Dudley?' 
 
 ' No, at Suffolk-street; they hung him 
 well.' 
 
 'I am glad of that,' said Archer, 'for 
 he is such a decent fellow; and Perrott, has 
 he sold?' 
 
 'The larger one he has, but not the 
 others. Pie has a commission though for a 
 pair of small ones. Two "circulars,"' said 
 Johnson. 
 
 ' That's right,' said Archer. ' Did they 
 say how all the fellows were at the old 
 quarters ?' 
 
 ' 0, scratching at it,' said Johnson, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 ' with a few sales in the season to help the 
 " pot-boilers." ' 
 
 'Have they hung you in New-street?' 
 said Archer. 
 
 ' Yes, and fairly. I have had a letter 
 from the secretary, and I find,' said John- 
 son, 'that they have used me very well — 
 one next below " the line,'' two just above 
 it, and the other picture they have " skied;'* 
 but it was a duffer and not up to much — 
 that heathy bit I got at Stanton Common. 
 You remember it; I mulled the foreground?' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Archer; ' it was not your 
 best one, certainly; but they ought to have 
 managed you line space for that woodland 
 one, because that was really a good picture.' 
 
 ' I am glad you like it,' said Johnson ; 
 ^but however good a picture might be, 
 they know that I am but an outsider, an 
 amateur, and therefore they have no idea 
 of giving me priority in the hanging over 
 one who paints for a living; and I cannot
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 131 
 
 blame thein. I only wonder they give me a 
 place at all ; but their secretary is a very 
 good fellow, and they are a good sort there 
 ■altogether, a very good sort,' said Johnson, 
 ' and they hang impartially. You were out 
 Avith the hounds, I think, yesterday?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Archer, ' I was, or I should 
 have been with you ; but when you come 
 to kick your tops oiF, and settle down be- 
 fore a rousing fire, you do not feel much 
 inclined after a day's hunting to turn out 
 again. It was late too when I returned ; 
 the clock struck seven as I left the station ; 
 and after dinner I dropped off fast asleep, 
 tired out.' 
 
 Johnson was a very good fellow, and he 
 and Archer were great chums. They were 
 together in Rome for some time, as we 
 have seen, sketching with some other men, 
 and at home also they were often sketching 
 out on the hills and in the woods ; for 
 though Archer did but little in tliat way
 
 132 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 himself, Johnson painted regularly — 'fad- 
 ding' at it, as he said, ' for the love of it,' 
 and more for occupation than from neces- 
 sity; for come of a good family, and the 
 only son of a barrister of some standing, he 
 was left at his father's death in a comfort- 
 able position ; so the Civil Service knew 
 him no longer. 
 
 And it was then that he left London, 
 and settled in Worcestershire : havino; been 
 delighted with the scenery there, and in 
 the adjoining county of Herefordshire, 
 when he came down on a visit to Archer, 
 whose acquaintance he had made in the 
 Temple-gardens. For Avhen Johnson could 
 get away from Somerset House for an hour 
 or so, 'on important business,' as he said, 
 connected probably Avith the Red-tape 
 Room or the Sealing-wax Department, he 
 used to go there and sit by the fountain, 
 to allow his mind to relax a little from ' the 
 cares of office.'
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHEE. 133 
 
 Had they met under any other cir- 
 cumstances, as for instance in a railway 
 carriage, they would not of course have 
 spoken to each other, however long the 
 journey, as Englishmen are not in the 
 habit of doing so ; but as all the surround- 
 ings there were equally congenial to them, 
 after they had sat by each other for some 
 weeks they became acquainted, and ac- 
 cident bringing them still closer together, 
 they agreed after a time — as they were 
 then both resident at Bayswater, Johnson 
 having recently removed there from Pim- 
 lico — that they would occupy the same 
 rooms ; and so before Archer left London 
 they were chums together. 
 
 And their rooms were very well situ- 
 ated, for they were near to those of some 
 artist friends who lived there, and who had 
 also a studio at Notting Hill; which, well 
 placed in a quiet part, and with a good 
 north light, Avas jointly occupied by them
 
 134 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 and by some St. John's-wood men, Simms 
 andPerrott being of the number; and there 
 were few evenings that Johnson and John 
 Archer did not turn in there, to have a 
 chat amongst 'the paint-pots,' and assist 
 in the fumigation of the room ; the smell 
 of paint, as Simms observed, being ' un- 
 healthy.' 
 
 Living afterwards in Worcestershire, 
 in the same neighbourhood, they saw a 
 good deal of each other ; for even when 
 Johnson went to town for a week or two 
 for a change, and squeezed a lot of colour 
 away at the studio he had there — in the 
 Elm-tree-walk — as an incentive to work 
 while he was amongst his friends in the 
 city, Archer would be sure to be riding 
 over and looking in upon him, for they 
 were great friends and good neighbours, 
 and were well suited to each other. 
 
 It had been hinted too of late amono-st 
 those who knew them that, if they lived
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 135 
 
 long enough, they might also become re- 
 lations, as Archer had a sister, who was 
 tall and shapely, and fair to look upon; 
 and Johnson, as an artist, was not blind to 
 beauty. 
 
 And the beauty of Miss Kate Archer 
 came so very near to that ideal type 
 depicted by artists, but so seldom met 
 with, that it was a bad case with Johnson 
 from the first time he saw her; and they 
 did say — that is, the gossips in the village 
 — that when he came and settled there, 
 because ' the scenery' was so pretty, they 
 thought that Miss Archer was included 
 in it. And though she was too good-look- 
 ing for her lady friends to praise her, it 
 was generally conceded that she was 
 ' really a nice girl,' who, with lady-like ac- 
 complishments, had also a thorough know- 
 ledge of home duties, and was as well 
 versed in domestic economy as she was 
 in art and literature, and who therefore.
 
 136 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 while able to see to the management of 
 the kitchen, could yet hold her own in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 But not only was she able to do so, but 
 she was sensible enough to be at all times 
 willing to do so whenever she could lend a 
 helping hand there ; for, as her old maiden 
 aunts observed, ' she has always been 
 brought up properly, my dear, and has no 
 nonsensical pride about her ; so will make 
 a good useful wdfe for smj man.' 
 
 And as Johnson was often pottering 
 about there, when she was deep in the 
 mysteries of apple -dumplings, or shelling 
 peas, or feeding fowls, or busy with the 
 butter in the dairy — for though Archer 
 was not a farmer, he had cows and poultry, 
 and grew enough hay for his horses — and 
 as on such occasions she had seldom any- 
 thing on better than a plain print-dress or 
 a figured muslin, and would look rosy, and 
 could not help looking pretty, the poor
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 137 
 
 fellow got hit very hard indeed; and, old 
 bachelor as he looked, it was soon evident 
 that he wanted a wife, and he meant to 
 have one. 
 
 So, as they all knew he was a deter- 
 mined sort of fellow when he had set his 
 mind on anything, those in the neighbour- 
 hood began to look very knowing, and said 
 they would 'make a match of it.' And they 
 hoped it would be so, for Johnson was a 
 fine tall fellow, with a frank face and a bifj 
 beard, and the people about there thought 
 a good deal of him, and lik^d him ; for he 
 used to sketch their little ones, and gossip 
 M'ith themselves; and Avhenever he had a 
 chance of doing good amongst them — the 
 poorer portion — he did not miss it. 
 
 For he was old-fashioned enough to re- 
 member that kind words and sympathy are 
 acceptable, if even you have not spare cash 
 about you ; and though they cost nothing 
 to the giver, they are often worth a good
 
 138 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 deal to the receiver ; and that when it is so 
 easy to do good, and to give pleasure to 
 those who need it, it is a wrong thing and 
 a selfish thing, and a pity too, if }^ou do not 
 do it, if only to get into that belief that 
 people who exercise it do get into, that, 
 take it altogether, the world is not such a 
 very bad world after all ; only much of the 
 good that is in it lies below the surface, 
 and is seldom met with till you look for it. 
 
 'That seems to be a good bit you are 
 doing there,' said Archer, getting up and 
 looking at th» canvas Johnson was at work 
 at. 
 
 ' It will be, I hoj^e,' was the reply, 
 ' when I have finished it, and I have got all 
 the high lights in. How about this one, 
 Archie?' said Johnson, taking the picture 
 oiF the easel, and putting on to it a partly- 
 finished one that was face to the wall on 
 the floor. 'That foreground bothers me; 
 I always fail there in force or colour, or
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE AECHER. 139 
 
 some confounded thing or other,' said he, 
 pointing with his mahl-stick to some fore- 
 ground detail. ' I think it needs fresh eyes 
 on it, for mine are tiring.' 
 
 'Well, you are the best judge,' said 
 Archer, ' but 1 fancy it wants light.' 
 
 ' But how will you get it with those 
 rain-clouds over? The picture, as you see, 
 is " Storm clearing off.' " 
 
 'Just so,' said Archer; 'then clear the 
 clouds by rifting them still more, so as to 
 show the sky behind and get the blue 
 reflected in the water.' 
 
 ' You are right,' said Johnson. ' A streak 
 of emerald, please, there by your hand, to 
 tone the blue and take the crudeness out, 
 and I will scumble some in here ; it will im- 
 prove it. There,' said he, as he did so; 
 ' that, then, is about it. One change makes 
 others, Archie. I shall have now to alter the 
 colours of these cows. I think red, black, and 
 dun will suit them best. What say you?'
 
 140 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 ' Tiy it inside the blue there, on the 
 palette ; here are the tubes.' 
 
 ' Thanks ; only just a squeeze. I see, 
 said Johnson. 'Yes, that is just the thing; 
 just what was wanted. The colour in the 
 water forces them and brings them out.' 
 
 ' A gleam of light too in that left-hand 
 corner would help your distance, and make 
 those hills recede a mile or more ; at least, 
 I think so.' 
 
 ' It would,' said Johnson. ' Give me the 
 megilp. Well, what did you do out yester- 
 day? Was Collins with you ?' 
 
 ' yes,' said Archer ; ' the immortal 
 Pred was there in fullest force, and on the 
 chestnut, but only through the first run that 
 we had, and scarcely that, for, falling at a 
 brook, he lamed his horse ; so he got dis- 
 gusted and then turned for home. I landed,' 
 Archer said, ' and as hounds were mak- 
 ing for a wildish country, I left him at 
 it.'
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 141 
 
 'Settle alongside, Archie, in this chair; 
 then I can paint and listen. Now fire away,' 
 said Johnson, 'and tell me what you met 
 with worth the seeing — effects and good 
 bits suitable for canvas, and all about them ; 
 in case, from laziness or stress of weather, I 
 get hard up for them, too idle maybe to 
 turn out and search. What you describe 
 I see,' said Johnson ; ' and cloud effects and 
 scenes as named by you have come in use- 
 fully in views I have commenced but never 
 finished, until short of subject maybe in the 
 Avinter, when I " cook" them up a bit by 
 composition. A shocking plan, you'll say; 
 but then I am lazy, or rather, Archie, I 
 begin too many and only finish a few of 
 them ; and so, when I come upon them long 
 afterwards, I touch and touch until I make 
 them up. They are hybrid pictures, and for 
 practice only. All those I sell are finished 
 for the most part in the open ; and so ought 
 all to be. I am never satisfied with what I
 
 142 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 do,' said Johnson ; ' and so, you see, I get 
 into bad habits.' 
 
 'Just so,' said Archer; 'then paint the 
 fewer, and finish as you do them, and put a 
 check on your designing talent. It is all 
 very well, you know, for a book illustra- 
 tor; but for my part,' said he, ' one good 
 picture painted on the spot is worth a score 
 of those pretty fancies, as you w^ould find, 
 old man, if you had to get your living 
 
 by it; 
 
 ' Yes,' said Johnson, ' I am quite aware of 
 it, and I know it is a very bad propensity ; 
 ])ut it is my unfortunate habit of drawing 
 odds and ends that gets me into it. Come, 
 let that dog alone now, and settle down a 
 bit — poor Tiney ! — and tell me about yes- 
 terday, and what you did.' 
 
 'Very well,' said Archer, ceasing to 
 munch Tiney ; ' anything for a quiet life, old 
 fellow. After you, Johnson, with the light 
 — thanks. Where we met, then,' said he,
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 143 
 
 Svas at the Manor Wood, and I went to 
 Fred's place the overnight by train, so as to 
 get away as early as possible the next morn- 
 ing, to give us time to look round at the 
 country. Do you know it ?' 
 
 ' Xo ; only by Vernon's picture, that 
 with the sweep of hills and woodland coun- 
 try ; the one that he sold so well straight 
 off the easel. You must remember it,' said 
 Johnson. 
 
 'A. L. ?' said Archer. 
 
 'No; by W. H.,' said he. 'Where the 
 autumn leaves are fluttering from the trees, 
 and the foreground is splashed with the 
 colour of them, in amongst the ferns and 
 brambles, and where you have such a splen- 
 did bit of blue and purple distance, miles 
 up the valley.' 
 
 ' I think,' replied Archer, ' I know the 
 one you mean, though he has painted several 
 pictures of the valley and the woods about 
 there, and the old lanes at the back of them.
 
 144 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 that, bo were cl over as they are, get so glori- 
 ously russet, when then' banks are littered 
 with leaves and their ruts matted with the 
 mass of them, and when the only greens in 
 them are those jolly velvet mosses, that 
 serve,' said he, ' when a fellow has the ob- 
 ject of his small affections by him, Johnson, 
 as a cosy cushioned seat at the foot of a 
 gray oak, while he wrestles with opportunity 
 at the sight of the upturned lips of the loved 
 one, as she is looking for the bees in the 
 ivy blossoms ; at least, she tries to make him 
 think so.' 
 
 ' Does she?' said Johnson, as he strength- 
 ened the lio;ht to make the hills recede, and 
 stopped out a bit of blue that he found tell 
 too strongly. ' I can hear you have been 
 through it, old fellow. Ah, I have myself 
 noticed,' said he, ' when I have been out 
 sketching in some of the old quiet lanes like 
 those you speak of, where the banks are 
 high and the roots of the trees come out of
 
 JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 145 
 
 them, how singular it is that, where those 
 roots run about the road, there should so 
 often be dots on the one side of them and 
 scores on the other— just as though a parasol 
 and a walking-stick had been there side by 
 side. Something to do, perhaps, with the 
 bees in the ivy-blossoms.' 
 
 ' I should not wonder,' said Archer ; 
 ' but I will ask old Vernon, as he wanders 
 about the lanes a good deal, fixing their 
 beauties on the canvas.' 
 
 ' Well, if he does not " cook" his sketches, 
 it is a fine bit of country out there, certainly,' 
 said Johnson. 
 
 ' He never " cooks,'' ' said Archer, *• for I 
 have been with him ; we leave all that to 
 you. He paints all on the spot, like Millais 
 and Leader, and Yicat Cole and Hulme; and 
 he is therefore, as they are, always true to 
 nature, as you may see,' said he, ' in every 
 one he does. They are full of atmosphere 
 — nice breezy-looking pictures, in fact, with 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 some wind in them, that seems to bend 
 the grass and to stir the water, and to sway 
 the branches about as the leaves blow on 
 them.' 
 
 'Yes; I know them,' said Johnson. 
 ' They are good pictures, and in good keep- 
 ing ; and, with their broad cloud-shadows 
 and their moving clouds, they have a true 
 out-door look about them that is very 
 natural. I believe he is out in all weather 
 for effects, and only works from studies in 
 the worst of the winter ; and a good plan 
 too,' said Johnson, 'though I don't prac- 
 tise it.'
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AUTUMN TINTS AND WOODLAND SCENERY, 
 
 ' I CANNOT myself stand the cold,' continued 
 Johnson, stepping back a bit to see how the 
 sky was coming, now he had got the light 
 in, ' unless I am in exercise, and then I 
 don't care how cold it is ; and though I do 
 sell a few canvases occasionally to friends 
 who want them, and exhibit a bit for the 
 say-so, as a sop to one's vanity, Archie, and 
 for self-glorification, still, as I can manage 
 without doing so, I can afford to play with 
 it, and sketch, compose, or paint just as I 
 have a fancy for it. All in that book there 
 by you,' said he, ' are composition sketches, 
 designs, I may say— I have rather a weak- 
 ness that way, as you know, Archie— from
 
 148 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 odd tilings you have told me one time or 
 other, hunting incidents, and bits of scenery, 
 and different effects that you have thought 
 worth notice as you have come across them 
 when you have been out with the hounds. 
 What is your woodland bit, as good as Yer- 
 nonsr 
 
 'Yes,' said Archer; 'better in some re- 
 spects, as embracing more ; as the wood we 
 met at lies upon a hill, and you have from 
 there a long look up the valley as Avell as 
 over it, with its rich flat meadow-land and 
 its hoj) -yards and orchards, that edge up 
 the hills from the river. And between 
 the little coppices and covers that lie in the 
 hollows, you get,' said he, ' strips of sheep 
 j)asture and gullies, where the deep dri^^s 
 that come down throuo;h the bio' woods, 
 and line them with shadows, widen out 
 into the valley, and empty their rills into 
 the brooks and the river.' 
 
 ' Good for some sketching?' said Johnson.
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 149 
 
 ' Yes, very good/ was the reply. ' I 
 saw many bits,' said Archer, ' that would 
 come M-ell ; but none better than from the 
 wood, where there was a good foreground 
 of briers and bracken, and some famous 
 ragged turf with some grays and bro^vns 
 about it, a width of it, and some sheep 
 there, nibbling at the soft green turf that 
 was by it, where the hil\, sloped down to 
 the dingles. Talk of ferns, old fellow,' said 
 Archer — ' well, you know those that were in 
 that " Summer Noon" that was in the 
 Academy, Avhere in. the left-hand corner of 
 the picture you got that glorious reflected 
 light tlirough the taller ones — quite liquid 
 colour — that ran about the moss the ferns 
 came out of, like the lights that flicker 
 about a jrarden walk. I saw lots of it 
 there, splendid! All down the sides and 
 shoulder of the hill the turf is covered with 
 ferns, so high and strong that they scrape 
 your boots,' said he, ' as you ride through
 
 150 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 them ; and as they are just now turning 
 from gold to russet, you may fancy their 
 colour where the light comes through 
 them ! The greens too were magnificent ; 
 sloping to wooded hollows and ravines. I 
 wish you had been there,' said Archer; 
 ^ such great grand masses, all autumn- 
 tinted, growing above an underwood waist- 
 deep in ferns, and shadowed by big boughs, 
 that looked as if they were the growth of 
 years, and had sheltered them for a century. 
 And in an open glade between the trees, 
 where it was sunny, there were some 
 figures — women at a spring, and children 
 blackberrying — that, as they moved about, 
 gave useful colour and nice contrasting 
 form just where it was wanted.' 
 
 ' Good distance ?' said Johnson. 
 
 ' Yes ; and mid - distance. Judge for 
 yourself I call it so,' said Archer. ' A 
 level country lying between hills, high, 
 vast, and wooded ; with farms and home-
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 151 
 
 steads, and with ricks and cottages; and 
 a gray river that was willow-fringed, and 
 showed white at the Aveirs, where it tum- 
 bled over by the mills, and white again 
 on the fords, where the sun caught it as it 
 wound lazily along over the blue of the 
 shallows, and the indigo-green of the woods, 
 rippling along to the steel-tint below it, 
 where it was in shadow from a rain-cloud. 
 And beyond it,' continued Archer, ' were 
 purple breadths of heath and yellow stub- 
 bles, and ruddy-looking fields above the 
 meadows, with teams at plough there, and 
 with wreaths of smoke drifting across them 
 from some burning weeds.' 
 
 'Scutch, probably,' said Johnson; 'it 
 gives those long low trails that are so use- 
 ful. A good mid-distance for a picture, 
 Archie.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but the hilly distance was still 
 finer,' said Archer, ' swept as it was by 
 cloud-shadows, from a rainy sky far up the
 
 152 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 valley, where the hills, range on range, rose 
 into the darkness of it, and closed the view. 
 The distance citywards was also good, fine 
 indeed, as I saw it,' said he, ' under an at- 
 mosphere that blued it over and softened 
 it, and that gave a nice mistiness to the 
 tall poplars and the square clumps that led 
 the eye on to the hamlets and the villages 
 and the city ; Avhere the high spire and the 
 cathedral tower pierced the pall of smoke 
 that lay there. And beyond it,' said Archer, 
 'was haze, then hills, a long and lofty 
 range that was varied in outline, and deep 
 blue in the hollows, and sunlit at the top, 
 the lights shifting as we looked, and front- 
 ing a still further range, high too and 
 wooded, that melted into distance miles 
 away, under a sky all thin blue-gray and 
 cloudless.' 
 
 'By Jove,' cried Johnson, 'what a j^lace 
 for pictures !' 
 
 ' I thought you would say so,' said Ar-
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 153 
 
 cher. 'We will go there, old fellow, when 
 the warm days come in spring, and then 
 you can paint a bit while I pick primroses. 
 The woods all round there are full of them, 
 and the paths are bordered with their yel- 
 low blooms, which, mixed as they are with 
 the blue and white of the violets and the 
 wild hyacinths, the woods then are cer- 
 tainly worth seeing, I can tell you,' said 
 Archer. 
 
 ' I will try a picture there,' said John- 
 son, ' " The Woods in Spring.'" 
 
 'They are worth it,' replied Archer, ' as 
 you will say when you see them. Well, 
 from this wood we went away directly and 
 straight for our country, as good luck would 
 have it, as the Manor AVood is the bound- 
 ary of the Hunt, a neutral cover, and Ave 
 reached the Rough at the bottom,' said Ar- 
 cher, ' and ran through it, many of us having 
 to lead over there, for there were nasty bits 
 about, and thence to Cruckstone Gorse — a
 
 154 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 holding place, Johnson, where a second fox 
 Avas moved and the pack divided, and so 
 split the horsemen. Will, however,' said 
 he, ' with some difficulty got the hounds to- 
 gether again, and cantering on, he laid them 
 on the line. Hunting it every inch for half 
 a mile, they owned it with a burst, then 
 went away straight across country up to 
 Quatford Top, where he soon w^as viewed, 
 tearing along a grass piece three fields on. 
 But as the pace, as you may suppose, Avas 
 now too good for breathing-time, the pot- 
 terers were thrown out ; so that it gave the 
 hounds a chance, and cleared the way for 
 those who meant to go. For the next three 
 miles or so,' said Archer, ' Fred and I had 
 our fences together, neither of our horses 
 making one mistake — he rode the chestnut, 
 I was on the bay — until we got the brook, 
 a clipper — Barford Brook, which, as it is 
 bushed by withies nearly all the way, re- 
 quires some doing, and throws you out of
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 155 
 
 stride. I always like water on the swing/ 
 said he, ' as the pace lands you ; but when 
 you have to turn 3'our horse about, John- 
 son, and pound him at it, he knows what's 
 coming, and will then refuse, unless he is a 
 water-jumper. 1 got it just right,' said 
 Archer, 'straight between the trees; but the 
 chestnut mare would not have it, so Fred 
 got stuck. However, by dint of spur he at 
 last got her over, but, dropping soft, sh-e 
 fell, and when he got her up he found her 
 lame — wrenched, I expect,' said Archer. 
 ' So, as I said, he left, and I went on. But 
 it lost me time,' said he, 'and the hounds 
 were at check when I reached them. Will 
 tried back and cast round, but it was all of 
 no use; so making sure that the fox had 
 gone to ground in some unstopped earths a 
 little farther on, they fixed to draw afresh 
 rather than wait and dig.' 
 
 'And where did you go to then?' said 
 Johnson.
 
 156 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 'To Grantham Woods,' said Archer; 
 ' a splendid country, and a fox for certain. 
 George Brooks, our break-neck rider, rode 
 up then — you know him, Johnson. "Are 
 you for Grantham, John?'' said he. "I am," 
 I said. "I shall not go, for one," said 
 George; "they'll never find." "We found 
 the last time," I replied, "when it was a fix- 
 ture." "Yes," said he, "that you might 
 do when you meet there, but not, John, 
 when you come there from another quar- 
 ter. Leadenhall-m.arket is well-known to 
 all, and so are its foxes ! What was your 
 run last time ?" said George, " a straight 
 and o-ood one ? Hans; such old rino;ers 
 dodging round the cover; their stiff'ened 
 limbs know not an inch of country ! When 
 next you chop there — 'chop' is the word," 
 said he, " for there is no run in them — get, 
 if you can, the handling of his carcass ; if 
 you don't find, en roughing-up his coat, 
 seeds from the chafF-bag, why, John, I'm a
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 157 
 
 Dutchman ! A bagman I can swear to any- 
 where," said George, " and so can hounds, 
 who will turn their noses up and scarcely 
 cat him. If I go hunting, let it be for 
 something ; none of your galloping about 
 the rides," said he, " with spurts into a 
 neighbouring field or two, but straight 
 away, the countty stiff and strong, and 
 with fences bio- enou2;li to weed the ruck, 
 and give us room to move — hounds room 
 to go. I am not a tailor- swell," said he, 
 "to join a meet for well-cut coat, neat 
 cords, and natty boots, and at the first stiff 
 bit we get sneak home again. Meaning to 
 go, John, give me the chance to find, and 
 I will ride a distance; but here," said he, 
 "there's none; so I shall save my mare and 
 save my time. But I am keeping you, 
 I see ; they are on the move. Great 
 luck, old boy! If you should win the 
 brush, just shake the seeds out!" And so 
 he left.'
 
 158 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 'Then do they,' Johnson said, 'heave 
 bagmen there?' 
 
 'Bagmen!' said Archer, 'no; nor did 
 they ever have them; but George likes pace, 
 and when he does not get it, " Bag fox !" 
 cries he. It's laughable.' 
 
 'You don't go with the old squire's 
 harriers, do you ?' said Johnson, throwing 
 his dun cow slightly into shadow to tally 
 with the rain-cloud overhead. 
 
 ' Sometimes,' said Archer, ' as it is a 
 first-rate pack and he is a good fellow, that 
 is if I have a young horse that I want to 
 teach, or if the meet is far ; though to my 
 thinking that "thistle-whipping" is a tame 
 affair, though I don't mind a by-day now" 
 and then with them, Johnson, when — say 
 in March — some old jack hares will go as 
 straight as foxes. We had a very straight 
 thing from the Hall meadows last season, 
 but, as a rule, it's ring, ring, ring all day, 
 and pick and choose at every fence you
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 159 
 
 come to ; still you do see all the hunting, 
 but with foxhounds the pace prevents it. 
 But I like a swing and pace,' said he; 
 'not time to look — a run that makes you, 
 Johnson, if you are to see it, go straight as 
 pigeons and as swift as swallows ; that gets 
 your steam up and well warms your blood, 
 and rouses all the mettle that is in you — 
 you and your horse ! That is the sort of 
 hunting,' said Archer, 'that I like, old man. 
 "With hounds like ours, that can fly their 
 fences and spring like greyhounds, it is 
 sport indeed !' 
 
 ' Was Palmer out ?' said Johnson. 
 
 ' Yes, he was,' said Archer, ' along with 
 Causer, and well-mounted too, on a rare 
 good-looking one, that champed his bit and 
 flung his flakes of foam while trotting on 
 the turf beside the hounds, bringing his 
 legs well under him at every stride. A 
 small and well-bred head and good bang 
 tail, set on just as it should be — a nice
 
 160 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 liorse altogether,' said he, 'and a fencer, 
 that pricks his cars as he nears the leap, 
 just like a hunter, and lets his rider pull 
 him well together. I saw him do some 
 rails,' said Archer, ' in first-rate st3de, most 
 clean and steady — some four-barred ox- 
 rails, five feet high at least, and nearly six if 
 taken at the uprights — three to a length — 
 so close together, and with no "give" in 
 them ! Were not the price a long one, I 
 should buy him — three fifties, for I asked 
 it, and he is cheap at the money,' said Ar- 
 cher. 'However, I must be content, for 
 my last purchase — that brown horse — car- 
 ries me splendidly. Wells tried him when 
 I was up there, and liked him too. He is a 
 good horse, Johnson.' 
 
 'And what has Causer now?' said John- 
 son. ' He seldom mounts well.' 
 
 ' 0, nothing much,' was the reply. ' A 
 slashing-looking one, but middling pace — a 
 soft one, I think,' said Archer, 'for lie was
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 161 
 
 soon pumped out in that run on the plough 
 the other day. I doubt his judgment.' 
 
 ' There then, Archie, I think that comes 
 better,' said Johnson, looking with his head 
 aside at the blue bits he had scumbled in 
 the picture, rifting the sky, and so improv- 
 ing it. 'What as to Grantham?' said he; 
 ' what sort of a country is it ?' 
 
 ' 0, beautiful !' was the reply ; ' all hill 
 and dale, with great woods that are scored 
 by ravines, and with old quarries and gul- 
 lies in them, and lots of tumbling water. 
 One dell, or rather a deep glen, that we rode 
 through was very fine ; the hills rising on 
 either side of it to a ffreat height, and cut- 
 ting the sky with their greensward, green 
 to the top of them. 
 
 'But we did not find there,' said lie, 
 ' though the hounds drew through it care- 
 fully ; so we went on down into the dingle, 
 a most tangled place, and there, picking 
 our way over the broken ground and the 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 brushwood, and poking about through the 
 gorse and hng, and under the sprays and 
 boughs, we found a wide brook that was 
 brawhng through the bottom, and dashing 
 its foaming flakes on boulder stones, and on 
 great rough slabs that had been washed 
 down there from the quarries by the floods 
 in the winter. A famous bit for a picture, 
 Johnson,' said he, ' and full of colour ; for 
 just above the brook there was a mass of 
 red rock that jutted into it, and that was 
 stained with some old gray moss and lichens, 
 and half-shadowed by the long purple 
 sprays of the boughs that hung over it. 
 
 'And ferns sloped up from it,' said 
 Archer, ' banks of them ; most glorious 
 ones, Johnson, growing luxuriantly, and 
 shoulder high, in all the beauty of their 
 autumn tints ; most splendid studies ! And 
 up still higher, and neal'ly black — so deep 
 was the green of it — was a wide-spread 
 backing of some grand old yews, edged with
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 163 
 
 the berries of the mountain-ash, that hung 
 in tangles there, with feathery birch. 
 
 'Then, as we went onwards,' said he, 
 'we found a landslip that had pushed the 
 brook out and turned its course, and so 
 made a waterfall. A fine point as we saw 
 it,' said Archer, ' with a rift of blue sky- 
 high up through the trees, over the white 
 of it. And riding behind the hounds for 
 some distance along the brook, Ave saw lots 
 of material and any quantity of good things, 
 passing great dock-leaves, both cup-like and 
 spread out, the very things, old man,' said 
 he, ' for foregrounds for you, whole beds of 
 them, by pebbly shallows, and lots of hem- 
 lock that was grown to a giant size, and 
 water-herbage. Rare studies, Johnson. 
 
 'We will go there some time with 
 the blocks and sketch them ; they are very 
 fine. We also passed by many calm still 
 pools,' said Archer, 'out of the current, 
 where the banks had burst; and in their
 
 164 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 bottle-greens and browns, beneath the re- 
 flections of the bladecl grass, were speckled 
 trout, that made us long to stay a bit and 
 fish there.' 
 
 'Well, let us go there some day soon,' 
 said Johnson. 
 
 'We will,' said Archer. 'After a mile 
 or so of watery-way, that cooled the 
 horses' feet and made hounds fresher, a 
 narrow pathway coming from the top 
 ran by the brook, and so gave elbow- 
 room, which Ave were glad of, as it saved us 
 pressing the boughs back as we went along 
 there, which we all had to do all up the 
 brook, it was so overgrown. Being thus 
 able to push along a bit, we quickened our 
 horses' pace, and went on through the glen 
 to the end of it, the hounds "drawing 
 blank," the road, as we made our way there, 
 fifetting darker,' said Archer, 'from some 
 dense plantations of firs, beech, and oak. 
 
 ' Turning a corner, under hanging trees,
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 165 
 
 a burst of light disclosed a lengthy meadow, 
 bright-green and sunny, sloping down 
 gently to the valley under, and brightened 
 by the scarlet of the coats and by the dap- 
 pled hounds then trotting over it — a picture, 
 Johnson.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied. ' Well, how does 
 mine come now ?' 
 
 ' 0, very well,' said Archer, looking at 
 it. ' It is much improved. I see you have 
 " stopped'' that light ; it is all the better 
 for it.' 
 
 ' Well, while we watched the long cloud- 
 shadows,' continued Ai'cher, 'that were 
 stealing slowly across from where the sha- 
 dows of the glen fell on the meadow, and 
 saw the lighter shades float on over the 
 darker ones, to blot out, as they went, bright 
 bits of colour, spotting the green with gray, 
 a shout of " Gone away !" and sound of 
 horn, changed all our thoughts to the 
 huntsman and the hounds.'
 
 166 AUTUMN TINTS AND 
 
 ' You found at last, then ?' said John- 
 son. 
 
 ' We did,' said Archer. ' A man out 
 ploughing there beyond the meadow had 
 seen a fox steal quietly away; so as we 
 came in sight he signalled to us. So Warne 
 at once,' said he, 'galloped with cap in 
 hand to where he stood, cheering the 
 hounds on as he went along. 
 
 " I seed him," said the fellow, " cross that 
 field theer, and go by that big oak through 
 that theer hedge, making for them big 
 covers on the hill. He's twenty minutes 
 gone.'' " Was it a sheep-dog that you saw?" 
 said Will. " It warn't," said he. " I'd know 
 a fox from ship-dog any day. I'se seed 'em 
 often ; you git your hounds on if you want 
 to catch him, for when he passed he looked 
 as fresh as paynt." So on we went,' said 
 Archer. 
 
 ' As the ground was moister there, seem- 
 ingly from rain that had not reached us, the
 
 WOODLAND SCENERY. 167 
 
 hounds soon had their noses down and 
 owned the scent, which, as it mended on 
 the grass lands, it dropped the pickers,' 
 said he, 'for it gave us pace. The way 
 hounds went,' said Archer, ' looked so like 
 a kill, that each man rode as if he booked 
 the brush. Through wood and thicket, and 
 prickly gorse and copse, the pack Avere so 
 resolute that they dashed on without a 
 pause, and raced mile after mile over turf 
 and fallow-field. 
 
 'At last,' said he, 'they viewed him 
 making for some sheep under a hedgerow, 
 where they were huddled up together. 
 With one wild scream from Will to spurt 
 them on, they lengthened out and strained 
 their very hearts, good hounds, to kill him. 
 
 'In three more fields they flung them- 
 selves upon him, and rolled him over down 
 into the ditch. 
 
 'A fifty-minutes' run — five up — I one,' 
 said Archer. 'A right good fox! — no
 
 168 AUTUMN TINTS AND WOODLAND SCENERY. 
 
 " bagman'' that is certain ; so George, yon 
 see, was " out" for once, old man. 
 
 ' So there's chapter and verse for you,' 
 said Archer ; ' so shut up the painting now, 
 Johnson, there's a good fellow, and let us 
 have a row on the river. We will go across 
 the racecourse to the ferry, and take a 
 boat from there. It is a jolly day, and we 
 shall enjoy it.' 
 
 'Well, wait ten minutes,' said Johnson, 
 ' and I will be with you ; and then we will 
 pull up to Holt and have a look at the 
 swans.' 
 
 'Agreed, old man; so stir yourself,' said 
 Archer.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A GHOST IN THE OPEN — GRIFFIN IN THE 
 GRIP. 
 
 ' Who was the new man you were talking 
 to to-day, Dawson ? The fellow goes well.' 
 
 ' The one on the bay do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Yes, a sharp-looking little customer, 
 who seems to have all his eye-teeth about 
 him.' 
 
 ' 0, that was " little Jemmy," to be 
 sure, Jemmy Griffin ; a very old friend of 
 mine, and once a neighbour.' 
 
 'What, did he ever live in these dig- 
 gings ?' 
 
 ' Yes, for two or three years ; but it 
 was before your time. You had not come 
 here then ; and he is now on a visit at 
 Beckley. He is coming here, b}' the b}'e,
 
 170 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 to-morrow, Fred ; and if you will come 
 too, and help us out with a hare and a 
 brace of birds, at four sharp, you Avill find 
 him, I think, a very decent fellow.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' said King ; ' he is good across 
 country, that's certain.' 
 
 ' Yes, he is,' said Dawson ; ' but when I 
 first knew him, he was as great a " tailor" 
 as you ever saw, and had positively no 
 hands or seat.' 
 
 The speakers were young Harry Daw- 
 son, gentleman farmer, and Fred King, 
 gentleman at large, the only son of a 
 wealthy landowner, by whom he had been 
 indulged from quite a boy, and who still 
 gave him nearly all he asked for; the lo- 
 cality, the interior of an old manor-house — 
 Dyneley Court — in Herefordshire ; and 
 the time, the evening of a hunting day in 
 November, when King, who lived near 
 there, at the Pool House, and who often 
 looked-in in the evening for a gossip, and
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 171 
 
 had been out that day with Dawson, settled 
 himself in an easy-chair before the fire, and 
 talked of the day's " run," and kindred 
 topics. 
 
 ' Who put him in the way of it ?' said he. 
 
 ' Well, in a measure, I did,' said Daw- 
 son ; ' for, as I could not,' said he, ' ride with 
 a fellow in that form, I just " grassed" him 
 — a few soft ones, Fred, and one rattler — 
 to get his hands down, and fit him to the 
 pigskin, and he has gone very fairly ever 
 since. We met in rather an odd sort of 
 Avay. 1 don't know if ever I told you of it ?' 
 
 ' I think not,' said King ; ' the name 
 seems new to me.' 
 
 ' It was when the governor was alive,' 
 said Dawson ; ' one day somewhere about 
 this time five or six years ago. I know we 
 Avere busy Avheat-sowing. We had the 
 hounds here. They brought a fox from 
 Cherwood, one of our outlying fixtures, as 
 I think you know, Fred, and crossed the
 
 172 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 water, and ran him up the meadows and 
 over the plough and through the orchards, 
 and away for Hampton. We watched them 
 — for being busy I had not,' said Dawson, 
 ' been with them — out of hearing and over 
 the hills, when, " Harry lad," says the gover- 
 nor, "just go round the fences, will you, and 
 look them over; and Jem here shall take 
 some trous and hetherings to fill the gaps, 
 if you find that there are any ; and count 
 the sheep again as you come back. There 
 may be some strayed if they have left the 
 gates open." So I went,' said Dawson. 
 ' Well, Fred,' said he, ' scarcely was I out 
 of sight of the old man — in fact, I was but 
 just past the sawpit — when I heard a most 
 awful howling and scream on scream. 
 Knowing that Jane Callow's youngsters 
 were out that way, getting in some fern we 
 had cut for her for litter, I hurried on, 
 thinking they had got a snake, or a snake 
 had got them — there are lots on the com-
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 173 
 
 moil, you know, and in those hedges — and 
 that there was no time to lose ; so fretting 
 over the gate into Perry field, and making 
 for the noise, there the children were,' said 
 Dawson, ' sure enough, cowering under the 
 hedge and screaming lustily. " What is 
 the matter with you?" I said, "you young 
 varmints !" ' continued Dawson. ' '' What 
 are you making that noise for ? You will 
 frighten the whole parish !" "0, sir ; please, 
 sir ; the ghost, sir !" was the sobbing reply, 
 given in the native dialect, which, as you 
 know it too well, Fred, I will not,' said he, 
 'inflict upon you; "it's there, sir; in the 
 hedge, sir; please, sir" — sob, sob. Look- 
 ing where they pointed, there certainly was 
 something white there — orthodox colour 
 for ghosts, I thought,' said Dawson ; ' and 
 also on the move, as though the apparition 
 had its back up, and was stealing along the 
 hedgerow to get away unnoticed. Quieting 
 the miserable little imps, I went towards it,'
 
 174 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 said he, 'and there, in the corner, caught 
 in the brambles, was some light-coloured 
 garment, bulged by the wind and surging 
 in the breeze. Bending forward to hook it 
 up, the confounded thing gave a groan, 
 and then a second, more piteous than the 
 first.' 
 
 ' The deuce it did !' said Fred, as he 
 looked rather wild about the eyes. 
 
 'Fact,' said Dawson. 'Now I am. not a 
 nervous man myself, Fred ; but I must 
 say I did not then wonder at the young- 
 sters' noise, especially when, amidst some 
 more unearthly sounds, I heard — now don't 
 get nervous, old fellow ; I see your hair is 
 beginning to rise — right under my very 
 feet, and below the ground, and said in 
 the most sepulchral tones possible — steady, 
 Fred, it's coming — very sepulchral indeed, 
 Fred — the stern command to " Get me out ; 
 get me out !" ' 
 
 ' By Jove !' said King.
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 175 
 
 ' Well, here was a fix,' said Dawson. 
 ' Who was " me," ghost or human ? Jumping 
 over the cutting on to the bank, I peered 
 into the next field. Nothing there ; looked 
 all round — still nothing; yet the groaning 
 and the moaning continued. Thinking, all 
 at once,' said he, ' it might be that fool of a 
 fellow Biscoe "on for a lark," I sang out 
 — 0, you need not think I was frightened, 
 Fred,' said Dawson — ' " Come, Master 
 Jemmy, you get out of that, or I will make 
 you; none of your nonsense, you great 
 stupid !" " But I cannot get out," was the 
 reply. " Is it really you. Jemmy ?" I said, 
 scarcely recognising his voice, and thinking,' 
 continued Dawson, ' I had seen him down 
 in the hop-yard before I started. " Yes, it 
 is," was the reply. " Are you sure ?" said 
 I. " Did your godfathers and godmothers 
 give you that name?" "Yes, yes, I tell 
 you, I am Jemmy; and as you seem to 
 know me, why do you let me lie here un-
 
 176 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 derground ? I am in a coffin ; a perfect 
 coffin." ' 
 
 ' What did you think when he said that 
 — " in a coffin" ?' said King, as he felt his 
 scalp creep. 
 
 ' Why, with no Jemmy to be seen above 
 ground, to tell you the truth,' said Dawson, 
 ' I did not know what to think. Accident, 
 however,' said he, ' soon solved the mys- 
 tery, luckily for Jemmy ; for in jumping 
 back off the bank I stumbled,' said Daw- 
 son, ' and, pitching forward, fell into the 
 field, with my legs hanging over the cut- 
 ting. "Let me catch hold of your legs," 
 said a voice under me — just fancy, Fred, 
 right under me.' 
 
 ' By Jove !' said King again. 
 
 ' " No you don't," said I, as I whisked 
 them out ; " not if I know it ;" and up I 
 scrambled,' said Dawson. 'But to make a 
 long story short,' said he, ' continued moan- 
 ings and groanings induced me, after again
 
 GRIFFIN IX THE GRIP. 177 
 
 listening, to push the briers aside — they 
 had been pressed down by something — and 
 to look into the cutting; and there at the 
 bottom of it lay, crudled up, not a verit- 
 able "ghost," but an apparition of flesh 
 and blood. 
 
 " Why, how in the name of all that is 
 horrible did you get there ?" I cried with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " I was thrown here," was the reply. 
 
 " Who threw you here?" I asked. 
 
 " Charley." 
 
 "What Charley?" said I. 
 
 " Old Charley." 
 
 " And where is he gone, the rascal?" 
 
 " Over the hedge — he jumped it." 
 
 " How long ago?" I inquired. "Perhaps 
 we may catch him." 
 
 " 0, half an hour or more," was the 
 reply; "it must be, I know." 
 
 "The scoundrel," I muttered, as I 
 thought,' said Dawson, ' of our one rural 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 policeman, Timmmo;s, and the propriety of 
 at once sending for him. " What could 
 have been his motive ?" 
 
 "0, he wanted to get rid of me, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " So it seems," I said. " However, the 
 first thing to be done is to get you out of 
 this, and to see to you, and then we will 
 try if we cannot run him down. It is im- 
 possible," said I,' continued Dawson, ' " that 
 he can have got away far by this time. I 
 will soon have you out, old fellow, when 
 I can get this pole from the hedge for you 
 to hold by." 
 
 " I fear he has," was the remark ; " for 
 he went off on the gallop." 
 ^^•^^/•"Did you say 'gallop'?" I asked, utterly 
 astonished. " yes, I see," said I, " an 
 idiom for pace. How shall we know him 
 if we come up wi(h him?" 
 
 " He has a white mark down the face," 
 was the reply; "ablaze."
 
 GRIFFIN m THE GRIP. 179 
 
 " Just SO," I said. Another idiom, I 
 thought, for burn. It leaves a white mark,' 
 said Dawson, 'as you see, Fred, by my 
 hand; that is seamed from a burn I had 
 three years ago. 
 
 " And a stripe down the shoulder." 
 
 "Ah! where you, hit him,'' I remarked. 
 
 " No," said he, " where he was hurt 
 when a colt." 
 
 " yes, very good ; when he was a 
 youngster, you mean," I said, laughing. " A 
 provincialism." 
 
 " Yes, when he was a youngster — a two- 
 year old." 
 
 " And what else," I asked, " has he, that 
 we shall know him by if we catch him ?" 
 
 " A big bang tail," said he. 
 
 "Why, what on earth are you talking 
 about?" I said. . Poor fellc^! Slight con- 
 cussion and wandering; evidently hit no 
 the head, thought I. This must be seen 
 to. " Confound the pole, will it never come
 
 180 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 out '?" I said, as I kept on trying,' said Daw- 
 son, ' to drag it from the hedge to help 
 him out with it. 
 
 " Hi, you frightened brats !" I shouted 
 to the youngsters, who were too terrified,' 
 said he, ' to quit the field without me ; " cut 
 away this minute and be oif up to the 
 house ; now quick, and bring the men. A 
 man in the grip, tell them, and to bring 
 some picks — and hi, here! a ladder too. 
 Now don't forget the ladder ! Run all the 
 way. He is ofi" his head,'' I muttered, "clear 
 enough. 'A big bang tail,' indeed. 'Old 
 Charley' with ' a tail !' That is good, 
 though." 
 
 " I shall be ofi* my head very soon if 
 you don't hurry," said he, " Confound it 
 all, I mean my horse, old Charley — why, 
 lots know Charley!" 
 
 " 0-0-0 !" I almost whistled, " I see 
 where you are now. You were one mth 
 the hounds, then, across here just now ?"
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 181 
 
 " Of course I was," said he. 
 
 " And have come to grief?" I said. 
 
 " Can't you see I have ?" said he. 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course. How very stupid! 
 I Avonder I did not see it," I replied. 
 
 " I wonder too," said he ; " but get me 
 out, and we'll talk afterwards. I can't be 
 in this form much longer." 
 
 " Are you hurt?" I asked,' said Dawson. 
 
 ' " I think so," he said, " for I am in 
 great pain ; but I am so wedged in here 
 and doubled up, I cannot tell what is the 
 matter with me till I feel my feet a bit." ' 
 
 ' What a situation for him to have been 
 in!' said King. 
 
 ' It was,' said Dawson. " Well, cheer 
 up, old fellow," I said,' continued Dawson, 
 ' " and we will soon have you out of it 
 now;" for I could find the long fir-pole I 
 had been tugging at — put there, Fred, to 
 bar the cattle — was giving, and I should 
 soon have it. " Here !" I called to him, as
 
 182 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 I dragged it out, " try to catch hold of this, 
 will you, and I will help you up with it?'' 
 And with that I passed it down into the 
 grip — one of our backwater cuttings, Fred, 
 that is straight and narrow, and eight feet 
 deep at least — a " grip" to him. But it was 
 of no use,' said Dawson, ' for I found that 
 the least exertion was too much for him; 
 and I at once saw that he was badly hurt. 
 " Never mind," said I, " old man. Keep 
 quiet; we will try again directly. I have 
 sent up to the house, and the men are 
 coming. All right, here they are,'' 1 said. 
 " They are only two fields off, so they 
 won't be long ; and I see they have a lad- 
 der and some picks with them. You won't 
 be there much longer, that's one comfort." 
 
 "It is indeed," he said; "for I have 
 been here long enough, I think. It is a 
 blessing you found me." 
 
 ' But the ladder,' said Dawson, ' we 
 found useless; so we went to work at once
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 183 
 
 and dug down to him, taking a slant from 
 six feet off or so, right to the bottom of the 
 cutting. The thing then,' said he, 'was 
 how we should get him up the slant, now 
 that we had cut it. However, we solved 
 that difficulty by digging round him, just 
 for elbow-room, and then working upwards, 
 making the slope into steps by ridging it. 
 And so,' said Dawson, ' we landed him, 
 and let him lie a while to get his breath, 
 and gave him a drop of brandy, that he 
 said we should find in a flask in his pocket, 
 as he had once saved a man's life in the 
 hunting-field through having it; so since 
 then he had never come out with the 
 hounds without it.' 
 
 'How was that?' said King. 
 
 ' I did not ask him then,' said Dawson ; 
 ' but he told me afterwards — one day after 
 he had got about again. A fellow got sent 
 asrainst a tree when hounds were in cover ; 
 and he got such a whack on the heart
 
 184 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 through it that it knocked the wind out of 
 him, and nearly settled him, and " Jemmy" 
 brought him to with the brandy.' 
 
 ' A capital thing for emergencies,' said 
 King; 'but, like fire,' said he, 'though a 
 good friend, it is a bad enemy.' 
 
 ' So the doctor remarked,' said Dawson, 
 ' and that it was a pity people would not 
 see it in that light. It would not have 
 helped Jemmy there though he had it ; for 
 he was too closely wedged to get at it. 
 But when we did get him out it was of use 
 to him. And then,' continued Dawson, 
 ' when his faint was over, we hoisted him — 
 four of us — on our shoulders, and carried 
 him gently to the house. And after he 
 had come round, and we were able to let 
 him talk a bit, we learned his name, and 
 found he was the person who had taken 
 Lingens — Lingens it was at that time, at 
 least; but he altered the name of it to The 
 Sycamores. You know it,' said he, 'by
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 185 
 
 the cover; and he Avas then overseeing to 
 repairs and improvements. 
 
 ' And he soon,' said Dawson, ' altered 
 the look of the place; and people about 
 there said, "That new man, Griffin, seems 
 to have some taste ;'' and so he had,' said 
 he. ' The wood-yard that was at the side 
 of the house he put behind, and made in 
 its place a lawn and croquet-ground, and 
 where there was a duck-pond that was 
 greened all over beneath the windows, he 
 soon had sloping turf and flower-beds; 
 and what with filline: here and cuttino: 
 there, he made a pretty garden round the 
 house; and by judicious thinning of the 
 trees about it, he got some peeps of blue 
 distance through them, and glimpses of 
 the river in the meadows. The moat,' 
 s^id Dawson, ' he also filled up, and made 
 a drive there, turning the water through 
 the back of the shrubbery — where it was 
 planted out — and dropping it down through
 
 186 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 
 
 the garden, over some ledges edged ^^dth 
 ferns and rockery, and then cutting away 
 the fence at the end there, he tumbled it 
 over into the old quarry, and so got a 
 waterfall, that with its picturesque sur- 
 roundings of red rock, and broom and 
 gorse, and hanging bushes, made a nice 
 point, and came well as you looked uj) at it 
 from the rustic brido-e that he threw over 
 from the bottom of the grounds to the ash- 
 bed, where the stream flowed away to the 
 river through the dell and the dingle, where 
 he had winding walks and seats ; and a 
 most jolly place it was too on a summer 
 evening,' said Dawson, ' as you may sup- 
 pose, Fred.' 
 
 'I should think so,' said King, 'but I 
 have never been there, though I have often 
 passed it and noticed the outbuildings.' , 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dawson, 'those he dressed 
 up ; he edged them all -^dth barge-boards, 
 as you see them, and planted the ivy that
 
 GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 
 
 187 
 
 covers them, and toj)ped them with that 
 dovecot.' 
 
 'He must have spent a lot of money, 
 then, inside the house and out of it,' said 
 King. 
 
 'He did,' said Dawson; 'I wish he could 
 have stayed.'
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 ' Well, as I was saying,' resumed Daw- 
 son, ' we got him to the house, and luckily 
 the doctor was at hand, at one of our cot- 
 tages up the road ; killing time there till 
 he was wanted by a workman's wife, who 
 had sent for him ; so that we soon got help. 
 " Two ribs upon the right, and one on 
 the left side are broken, if not crushed," 
 said the doctor, after he had examined 
 him; "and he is badly bruised and shaken; 
 he must be kept very quiet, and not talk ; 
 and do not let him exert himself in the 
 least, or it may go hard with him. Much 
 depends on that, remember ! Give me some 
 annel, please,'' said he, "and I will put it
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 189 
 
 • on as well as I can ; but it must be lightly 
 for the present, until we see what symp- 
 toms show themselves. ' 
 
 "I thought, doctor," said I,' continued 
 Dawson, ' "you always did them up tightly 
 at once; they bound me up pretty tight, 
 I know, when I got a rattler out hunting 
 once." 
 
 " I daresay they did," said he, " and so 
 should I do now in this case were I clear 
 about it. Where the fracture is a simple 
 one, straight through, Dawson, it is plain 
 sailing ; but the case is different when they 
 are crushed or badly broken, and a tight 
 bandage would only add to the mischief 
 You see it is this way, Dawson," said he, 
 "unless it is a clean fracture, you get sharp 
 edges; and if you press those sharp edges 
 in upon the lungs, you get inflammation 
 from the irritation of it, and sometimes 
 haemorrhage, that is often fatal ; and it is 
 not unlikely, even as it is, that we may get
 
 190 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 inflammation in this case ; so we will make 
 sure,'' said the doctor, " as Ave can soon 
 tighten it if no symptoms occur of any 
 moment. He is to have nothing, mind, 
 but slops, and to be kept quite quiet. I 
 will look in again," said he, "in a few hours, 
 and see how he is." 
 
 ' So having made him as comfortable 
 as he could,' said Dawson, 'he went back 
 to the cottage ; calling again as he rode by 
 in the evening, when the woman — Mrs. 
 Smith — was able to release him. 
 
 "By gom, sir," said Smith, as he brought 
 the news, " it be twins ! I dunna know how 
 I shall ever bear it."* 
 
 ' Poor wretch !' said King. 
 
 'The doctor found him easier for the 
 mixture — we had started Smith ofl\,' said 
 Dawson, ' Avith the prescription, as he was 
 poking in the way — and so he soon left us, 
 repeating what he had said as to slops and 
 quiet. We had sent in the mean time, and
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 191 
 
 unknown to Griffin, to his mother's place,' 
 said Dawson, ' the Grove, down in the hol- 
 low at Deepdale Brook, where Moore now 
 lives; and we had also despatched a man 
 or two to try to find the horse, and bring 
 with them, if they could see it, that white 
 mysterious thing that was caught on the 
 hedge, and which I had quite forgotten 
 and left there; a garment by the bye that 
 proved,' said Dawson, 'to bean old white 
 macintosh, which, coming off as he fell into 
 the grip, got caught by the briers, and 
 lodged there. On the man's return from 
 the Grove,' he continued, 'he found there 
 was no one there but servants, as Mrs. 
 Griffin and her daughters had gone — No- 
 vember being a dull month with us — for 
 three weeks to some friends in Warwick- 
 shire — the Flemmings of Kenilworth. As 
 it was of no use,' said he, ' spoiling their 
 pleasure by bringing them home, and as 
 more than servants' care was needed for
 
 192 OLD JOHX, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 Mm, we with difficulty persuaded liim to 
 remain with us, for a few days at least. 
 Begofino; we would not communicate with 
 
 (Do O 
 
 his people, his mother having heart-disease, 
 and sending again to the Grove to impress 
 the same upon the servants, he accepted 
 the situation, and was very patient. 
 
 ' Poor fellow,' said Dawson, ^ he had a 
 stiff time of it though ; for inflammation of 
 the lungs did set in, and we had then to 
 write to his friends, as he was very bad 
 with it, and we did not at that time know 
 how it might end. Of course we found 
 them nice people ; a wee-bit old-fashioned,' 
 said he, ' but very pleasant and lady -like. 
 When able to be moved with safety, they 
 had him Avith them ; and from that time to 
 this,' said Dawson, 'we have been great 
 friends.' 
 
 'How came he to leave this quarter?' 
 said King. 
 
 ' For one thing,' said Dawson, ' the house
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 193 
 
 was damp ; the pool and the moat had been 
 there too long, I expect; and for another, 
 and the main reason, he came into some 
 property by the death of an uncle ; and so 
 gave up farming, as being no longer neces- 
 sarj^ His mother and sisters, though, still 
 spend part of the year with him, at his 
 place, the Woodend — up for the Ludlow 
 country ; and the rest of the year at Bath 
 and Malvern, with a month at the sea in 
 the summer.' 
 
 ' Did you capture the animal?' said King. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dawson ; ' they found the 
 brute quietly grazing three fields off, with 
 the reins round his legs ; and he came with 
 them as gently as a lamb.' 
 
 ' Then he was not a vicious wretch ?' 
 said King. 
 
 ' 0, no,' was the reply ; ' but an ugly 
 beast with a great coarse head, and an 
 amount of jaw that looked like pulling. 
 
 ' Some one who had been kind enough 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 to tutor Jemmy, had it seems, told him, 
 when he was coming to a big place, to " put 
 the steam on, sit back, loose his head, and 
 let him have it." He did so,' said Dawson, 
 ' and he did " have it ;" for mistaking the 
 word " loose," he so slackened his curb 
 while going a fizzer for the fence, that " Old 
 Charley," who really could jump, and would 
 have cleared the lot, or have done it " on 
 and oflP," was sent with a bang against the 
 bank and turned over into the next piece ; 
 Jemmy coming to grief in the process, and 
 falling through the briers into the grip.' 
 
 ' I see,' said King. 
 
 ' Had not I found him,' said Dawson, 
 *he might have stayed, ay and remained, 
 there for days ; for we were seldom round 
 that corner, as we did not then turn sheep 
 there ; and the place itself was so completely 
 covered, by the briers not rising after he 
 went through them, that had he been un- 
 able to cry out, we may actually have
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HArPEXED. 195 
 
 passed the place a score of times Avithout 
 seeing him ; and doubled up as he Avas 
 closely wedged, he could not very well have 
 helped himself.' 
 
 ' That's certain,' King said. 
 
 'Since then, however, we have had 
 many a good day together, and he can now 
 ride, as you have seen,' said Dawson, ' to 
 hounds with any man; and but for that 
 " ghost" in the open and Griffin in the grip, 
 I should have missed knowing a very jolly 
 fellow, and my sisters a nice family. 
 
 'The memorable garment he still pre- 
 serves; it hangs in his sanctum, marked 
 " In memoriam," and it certainly was instru- 
 mental in saving his life — it was more,' said 
 Dawson, ' it was the cause of it ; for had 
 not the wretched thino; cauo-ht as he fell, 
 no " ghost " would have been seen, no 
 screams heard, and no help given. Case of 
 Q.E.D., old fellow, plain as your hat — 
 hence the relic'
 
 196 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 'Mary,' said Dawson, calling to the ser- 
 vant, as he finished telling King all about 
 the ' ghost,' ' is that old John's voice that I 
 hear out there?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the girl ; ' he's been down 
 at the clerk's, and has just called in, sir.' 
 
 'Then tell him to sit down a bit,' said 
 Dawson, ' and draw him some cider, and 
 bring in supper.' 
 
 'Would you like to go out into the 
 kitchen, Fred,' said he, as they finished sup- 
 per, ' and have a chat with the old fellow ? 
 He is on the settle there in the chimney- 
 corner. There is a good fire, I see.' 
 
 ' Yes, if you like,' said King. 
 
 ' He is quite a character, as you are 
 aware, Fred ; and now old ]\Iead is dead, he 
 is the oldest man and " father of the parish.'' 
 Come on, then,' said Dawson, ' while she 
 clears the things, and we will draw him out 
 a bit.' 
 
 ' Well, John,' said Dawson, as they went
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 197 
 
 into the kitchen, ' and how does the world 
 use you, old man ? You're late to-night.' 
 
 ' My duty to you, sir,' said John, getting 
 up and pulling his forelock — his smock-frock 
 as white as snow and his cheeks as rosy as 
 a pii^pin — ' nicely, nicely, thank you, sir. 
 I ates well an' I sleeps well, an' I thank the 
 Lord I can take ma drop o' drink. A taste 
 o' good stuiF this now, Mayster Henry ; clane 
 i' the mouth. I drinks it to you, gentlemen.' 
 
 'Thank you, John; don't spare it if you 
 like it. And what has Dovey,' said Dawson, 
 ' got to say for himself?' 
 
 ' A mighty little, sir ; mighty little. I 
 ha' been a-tacklin' on him, sir, for racin' the 
 parson.' 
 
 ' Kacing the parson, John ?' 
 
 ' Is, sir, o' Sundays. I teld him it daynt 
 become him. " Suppose the poor man," says 
 I, " was to trip a word, why you'd be on to 
 him like 'ounds a-huntin', or maybe head 
 him. To finish afore the parson," says I,
 
 198 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 " would disgrace the parish." Not as he's like 
 the old un, sir, Parson Yaxley, as ood let 
 us sleep all the sarmun, so as we didna snore, 
 an' in the winter arternoons, if it were a- 
 snowin', sir, ood send us out a shillin' apiece 
 fro the court-house, and stop hisself theer 
 over his wine, comfortable-like, for us to 
 goo home paceable, like good Christians, as 
 doin' on us more good nor a-settin' to hear 
 him i' the cold theer. " But, Dovey," 1 says, 
 an' as " fej^ther o' the parish" I sa3^s it, 
 " he's our suparior, so respecs his due ; no 
 sarvant ever rides afore his mayster." ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have heard say the old rector 
 was much liked,' said Dawson. 
 
 ' That he were, sir,' said John ; ' he were 
 mighty good to me, mighty good; that's 
 when I were a boy o' sixteen, sir — a matter 
 o' sixty year agoo now, ]Mayster Henry, sixty 
 year agoo. Well, sir, you know, my mother 
 — rest her soul, poor ooman — claned the 
 church, an' I helped her, so I were alleys a-
 
 OLB JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 199 
 
 angin' about theer like ; an' o' Sundays, 
 arter Ave'd turned the cushins up an' put 
 the books i' the proper place — i' the font, 
 sir — a good big un that were, sir, as they 
 could stand 'em up in, not that littler un 
 theyn got now — an' the dusters an' her 
 pattens theer ; her other pair, sir, in case 
 o' suddin wet o' Sundays, so as to be per- 
 vided-like ; a werry thoughtful ooman were 
 my mother, sir — we alleys left the doore 
 open for the week, to make it sweet and 
 clane and fresh-like for sarvice agin, and 
 then locked the gate, to keep the gipsies 
 out. 
 
 'But as the fowls could goo in,' con- 
 tinued old John, 'they did goo in, an' the 
 sheep too for the matter o' that, when they 
 was turned i' the churchyard ; so it were 
 my place, you see, sir, to hunt the eggs up, 
 an' bring him all I could find theer, an' — 
 for he did the thing as was right, sir, an' 
 alleys behaved 'ansum to ma, sir— he used
 
 200 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 to gie ma a 'apenny apiece all round for 'em, 
 good uns or bad uns.' 
 
 ' Did you get many, then, in the church ?' 
 said King. 
 
 ' Purty well, sir ; purty well,' said old 
 John ; ' but if theer'd a bin another pilpit, 
 or one o' them three-deckers, Ave'd a done 
 better, sir, for they laid eggs on eggs i' the 
 piljDit.' 
 
 ' I wonder you did not have them come 
 in on Sundays during service,' said King. 
 
 ' So they did, sir, at one time,' said he, 
 ' an' was alleys welcome ; we never meddled 
 ooth 'em, sir, nor mislested 'em; but the 
 clerk as they had then — old Thomas Cobb, 
 as is dead and gone, rest his poor soul — had 
 a misfortin, sir, so they was stopped.' 
 
 ' What was that, John ?' said Dawson. 
 
 'Why, you see, sir,' said the old man, 
 ' the parson had been a-lectrin' on him how 
 to gie out the hymns proper-like, and we 
 was to have, o' the next Sunday, "Hark!
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 201 
 
 the herald," on the bass viol — that were Joe 
 Timmins, and the flageolet, Edwin Purchas 
 — both on 'em gone now, sir, an' their in- 
 struments. An' the clerk, Thomas Cobb, 
 as I said, sir, in gieing of 'em out, were to 
 stop at " Hark !" an' not on no accounts 
 to goo on wi' the "herald" till the third 
 " Hark !" so as like to press the congerea- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Impress, John,' suggested Dawson. 
 
 ' Perhaps it were, sir,' said John. ' Well, 
 when he stood up o' the Sunday, sir, he 
 disturbed one o' them fowls, as had been 
 paceable-like i' the desk during prayers, and 
 set him a-flyin' on to the cushin, sir, where 
 " Cock-a-doodle-do," says he. "Hark!" 
 cries Cobb — that were his first "Hark!" 
 sir^ — and looks as wild as two hawks, to 
 think o' the daredness o' the fowl, and un- 
 der his very nose too, sir. " Cock-a-doodle- 
 do," says the fowl again, as bold as pos- 
 sible, and flapping his wings like a fighter.
 
 202 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 " Hark !" cries Cobb again — that were his 
 second "Hark !" sir — fiercer than ever, when, 
 as I sit here on this here settle, sir, the other 
 fowls jines in, an' in two minutes, what wi' 
 the "chuck-chucks" an' the "doodle-doos,'' 
 it were Meg's delight, sir ; an' in the middle 
 on it all, sir, while everybody were well- 
 nigh a-bustin', he roars out, savager than 
 ever — bein' obligated-like, sir, to goo on wi' 
 his part — " Hark ! the herald angels sing;" 
 an' then flopped back on to his cushin 
 an' disappeared ontirely, as the foAvls went 
 at it all at once, as if they meant it.' 
 
 'That was awkward, however, John,' 
 said Dawson, laughing. 
 
 ' It were, sir,' said John, who looked 
 very serious ; ' for we niver sung it that 
 mornin', arter all, sir. The viol tried it, and 
 the flageolet tried it, but it ony sounded 
 like both instruments a-laflin, sir; an' so 
 the flute an' the fiddle gid in at that, sir ; 
 an' then we all laff'ed, sir, instruments an'
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 203 
 
 all ; an' in the midst on it out o' her pew 
 walks the oiid squire's housekeeper, as were 
 brought up religious, sir, an' she went an' 
 jined the Methodies that very evenin', sir, 
 on the Green. "For," says she, "I won't sit 
 theer an' have my religion insulted by a 
 parcel o' fowls in that manner." An' 
 to her dyin' day she would have it, gentle- 
 men both, as how the parson an' the clerk 
 trained them fowls atween 'em; an' that 
 it Avere all a planned thing to put her 
 about an' fluster her, 'ecos she didna hold 
 good wi' fowls in any way, on account o' 
 their nise an' crowin' ; an' was alleys a 
 " drattin" 'em in an' out o' the church an' 
 about the buildins'. So through the crowin' 
 the fowls was druv, an' I,' said old John, 
 ' lost my 'apence ; an' as for her, sir — well, 
 she died a Ranter, as were a judgment on 
 her, through a-slanderin' o' them fowls.' 
 
 ' I wonder you were not clerk, John,' 
 said IGng.
 
 204 OLD JOHX, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I niver warn't no scholard,' 
 said John, ' or I could ha' copt Thomas 
 Cobb, I think, sir; leastways in foUerin' the 
 parson in a devout sort o' a manner, and at 
 a respectful distance — as I told Dovey, sir, 
 just now. But feyther didna hold good 
 ooth schoolin'. He said he larnt hisself 
 fro' the Book o' Natur; but I niver seed 
 it, sir, though I'se heerd folks, that be 
 gentlefolks, a-mentionin' on it ; but it were 
 a pictur-book, I know, sir, 'ecos they spoke 
 o' "the beauties" in it.' 
 
 ' They meant Avhat you see round you, 
 John — the beautiful hills and the woods,' 
 said Dawson, ' and the green fields and the 
 river.' 
 
 'Now did they, sir?' said John, rousing 
 up with astonishment. ' Ony to think o' 
 that now ! Ay, there be a go(5d maany o' 
 them things about in this part o' the coun- 
 try, sir, a good maany.' 
 
 ' And the blue sky and the birds, and
 
 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 205 
 
 the buds and the blossoms,' continued 
 Dawson. 
 
 'Well, I holds good ooth the blue sky, 
 Mayster Henry,' said old John, ' 'ecos that 
 brings the taturs on ; an' I approves o' the 
 blossom too, by reason o' it looking like a 
 lot o' cyder about,' said he; ' but as for them 
 buds and birds, sir, the one takes the t'other, 
 I reckon ; leastways them beggarin' sparrers 
 does, sir, as arn't no good to nobody, an' 
 them tomtits. They played the very old 
 un wi' my aperycot this time, sir, an' pun- 
 ished the pays dreadful, athough I'd stringed 
 'em an' feathered 'em an' old-hatted 'em.' 
 
 ' Ah, a heartrending case,' said Dawson. 
 ' Hold your cup, John. You won't be 
 afraid of a drop more ?' 
 
 ' Niver were it, sir,' said John. 
 
 * Fill it up for him, then, Mary,' said 
 Dawson ; ' it won't hurt him. Now, Fred,' 
 said he, 'old John will tell us of his younger 
 days.'
 
 206 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 'A ool, a ool, sir. This be mighty 
 good cyder, Mayster Henry,' said old John, 
 ' mighty good.' 
 
 ' Drink it up, then,' said DaAvson, ' and 
 light your pipe, John.'
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 BURTON OF BOSCABEL — INTO THE EIVER, 
 AND DOWN WITH THE FLOOD. 
 
 * Then you really had a good thing yester- 
 day ?' said Warden to his friend Burton, as 
 the two bachelor chums sat before the fire, 
 on a chill November evening, in Warden's 
 old-fashioned room at the Manor House, 
 which was a straggling sort of place, half 
 ivy, and situated in the midst of the hunt- 
 ing covers in Herefordshire, and in the 
 hamlet of Deepdale. 
 
 ' First-rate, Fred,' was the reply ; ' for 
 they are low-scented hounds, and they suit 
 the woodlands ; so if a fox is out, and there 
 is anything like a scent, we are sure of 
 sport.'
 
 208 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 Warden, who Avas a friend of Burton, 
 was a young fellow of good family and of 
 fair means; the farm that was attached to 
 the Manor House being a dairy-farm, that 
 gave grazing ground to a large herd of 
 milking cows, hence the cheese and the 
 butter-making there were items of import- 
 ance; and it was a poultry-farm also, as 
 ready a sale being found in the county 
 tovni for eggs and chickens, and such-like, 
 as in most places. 
 
 The poultry and the pigeon house and 
 the dairy were in a nice cool place by them- 
 selves, in a snug part of the shrubbery, and 
 each had an enclosure of its own; and their 
 little ornamental buildings were surrounded 
 by trees, and belted with rhododendrons, 
 crimson and scarlet, that, when they were 
 flushed with colour in the summer, looked 
 well with the white pigeons about them. 
 And the butterwomen, Jane and Martha, 
 went to market twice a week, and in the
 
 INTO THE EIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 209 
 
 old-fashioned way too — on horseback, with 
 their butter-bags — the cheese and the poultry 
 being always sent on by the carrier. 
 
 The two friends, Warden and Burton, 
 lived in adjoining parishes, and near to 
 Archer and Johnson, and they were also 
 within a few miles of Andrews and Oliver ; 
 the neighbourhood — as was all that district 
 indeed up the valley — being wooded and 
 beautiful. 
 
 And Burton was also a farmer, and 
 about thirty years of age, the same age as 
 Warden; but as he was 'better off' than 
 Warden, he kept more horses, for he had 
 more hunting. He also bred horses — good 
 ones ; and he took a pleasure in ' breaking' 
 them himself, for he was a good rider, and, 
 as we have seen in the cub-hunting, he 
 could ' stick' a horse as well as most men. 
 
 The name of the place that he and his 
 mother lived at was Boscabel, so named, 
 or rather renamed, by an ancestor, ' Bur- 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 ton of Burton,' who, being a staunch 
 Royalist, sided with King Charles, and as- 
 sisted, after the fight at "Worcester, to shelter 
 him from the ' crop-heads.' He paid dearly, 
 however, for his loyalty, as he had after- 
 wards to ' compound' to save his property. 
 So he set his teeth hard, for he had 
 ' the blood of the Burtons' in him ; and as 
 soon as it was safe for him to do so, he 
 changed the name of the place from the 
 Warren to Boscabel; and making a new 
 approach to it through the fields, he planted 
 the one side of the road Avith Scotch firs, 
 and the other with oaks, that at the time 
 of our narrative had grown into a magni- 
 ficent avenue ; the interlacement of their 
 branches, the rich browns of the one and 
 the grays of the other, with the light greens 
 and the gorse-greens of their foliage, mak- 
 inof as nice a bit of colour as one would 
 wish to see, especially when the sun shone 
 through it, and brought out the red lights
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 211 
 
 on the iir-bou2:lis, and threw such broad 
 shadows beneath them, that Avere of such 
 a fich soft green on the grass and so pur- 
 ple on the road, where they lay against the 
 bright l)ars of sunlight that went slanting 
 across it. 
 
 Alongside the avenue — or ' the drive,' 
 as it was called — were the paddocks, the 
 horses on the one side and the mares on 
 the other. And as most of the colts and 
 some of the hunters there were very fond 
 of coming to the rails, just to have their 
 noses rubbed and be messed with, the walk 
 up there was a pleasant one. 
 
 And the old fellow who did the ditch- 
 ing at the farm — old William — was one of 
 a family who had continued to live there, 
 from father to son, from the time it was 
 the Warren — not an uncommon thing in 
 the country, in those places where they 
 care for the labourers — and who therefore 
 never forgot the bit of oak for his hat as
 
 212 BURTON OF boscabel; 
 
 the day came round ; as he thought it ' his 
 dooty, sir,' on the twenty-ninth of ^lay, to 
 commemorate the loyalty of the family by 
 wearing the symbol of the king's escape. 
 
 And if you met him in the avenue, as 
 you often might do, ' doin' a bit o' cuttin', sir, 
 to claire the draanes,' he had always his 
 little say ready for you, correct to the let- 
 ter, ' as how the oud master o' all were a man 
 o' quality, sir, a good man an' true ; as were 
 put down — though it niver comed off, sir, 
 more's the pity — for a " Knight o' the Royal 
 Oak" by King Charles, as got up i' the 
 tree at Boscabel, sir, arter they'd druv him 
 fro' Ooster — you might a heerd on him, sir ? 
 — when that cussed oud Crummil pummild 
 him — darn his body !' 
 
 Burton, who was called ' Charlie' by 
 his friends, and 'young Mr. Charles' by 
 the men, though he Avas the only Mr. 
 Charles now, his father being dead, was 
 much liked in the neighbourhood, as he
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 213 
 
 had money to spend, and he spent it freely ; 
 and he had always a word for his workmen, 
 and an eye to their cottages ; and if people 
 would only work while they were at it, 
 and put their strength into it, there was 
 always plenty of employment and fair 
 wages for them at Boscabel. And there 
 were those about there who began to think 
 they might have before very long a young- 
 mistress at Boscabel, as well as a master; 
 for ' had not young Mr. Charles been a 
 good deal at the Old Squire's of late at 
 Peyton Hall; and warn't there that niece 
 of his there, young Miss Florence, as had 
 the golden hair ?' So the two things being 
 incontrovertible facts, the rumour com- 
 menced ; and, as the sequel will show, ru- 
 mour for once was right. 
 
 Raymond was a neighbour of Burton, 
 and lived at the Firs, the farm adjoining ; 
 but he was not, like Charlie, a hunting 
 man.
 
 214 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 To return to Warden and Burton, as 
 they were seated by the fire. 
 
 ' Come in,' shouted AVarden, m response 
 to a charivari at the door ; ' you are just in 
 time, old fellow,' said he, as Raymond en- 
 tered — Jack Raymond of the Firs, a very 
 great friend of his — and shook hands with 
 them. ' Why did you not drop in to din- 
 ner ? Find a seat, will you, and bring your- 
 self to an anchor. Pass the wine, Charlie, 
 and produce the trophy.' 
 
 ' 0, bother the trophy !' said Burton. 
 'He would call it "a tail,'' and ask for 
 " Zingari !" ' 
 
 ' What tale ?' asked Raymond eagerly. 
 
 ' This,' cried Charlie, catching him a 
 dab on the cheek with a fox's brush. 
 ' Crede^ crede, you unbelieving Ishmaelite; 
 ecce signum /' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you really won 
 that ?' said Raymond, with astonishment. 
 
 ' Don't I ? But I do, my dear fellow,' was
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 215 
 
 the reply. ' Ve?ii, vidi, vici; I went and 
 did it.' 
 
 'Give it out, Charlie,' said Warden, 
 ' and let us have it ; I have not yet heard 
 the rights of it myself. It was a confounded 
 nuisance I was unable to be with you; 
 but it was our Board-day, and I wanted to 
 bring forward the case of one of my men 
 who is under the doctor's hands.' 
 
 Thus exhorted. Burton settled himself 
 in his chair, stuck the poker in the fire, 
 and proceeded to give them the particulars 
 of ' the run from Henley.' 
 
 ' You know the big covers,' said he, 
 ' near Henley Dingles ? Well, making for the 
 upper end of them, we took the outer ride, 
 as the best place for a fair start ; and 
 waited there by the yews, amidst the whir 
 of the pheasants and the crackling of the 
 twigs, as the hounds worked beneath us in 
 the wood — when Parker, who Avas ahead 
 quietly listening, turned round briskly in
 
 216 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 his saddle, with " Hush, you fellows ; they 
 have found for a certainty.'' And he Avas 
 right too, sure enough,' said Burton, ' as a 
 low whimper, deepening into a bay, quickly 
 proved, repeated and responded to, as it 
 Avas again and again, by the whole pack. 
 
 "Hark! hark to Warrior!" cried Will, 
 as he cantered up, standing in his stirrups, 
 and looking ready to jump out of them. 
 " Have at him there, my beauties — have at 
 him ! There's a fox for a hundred !'' 
 
 ' With a rustle and a rush up the bank, 
 on they came with a crash, and with a 
 jum]) and a scramble at the top, they left 
 the woods for the open ; Will, as their white 
 sterns flickered at the fence, shouting, "Hold 
 hard now, gentlemen, till they get away; 
 he's right for Brookwood, and we're in for 
 a good un ! Come up, old horse. Now, stu- 
 pid," said he, as the old horse, getting a 
 thonger, rapped the pleachers in his con- 
 tempt for "a four-footer,'' "are you going
 
 INTO THE EIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 217 
 
 to say your prayers at starting, you old 
 beggar V Come along, I say !" And waking 
 him up with a touch of the spur and a jib 
 of the rein, he turned the corner of the 
 cover; and then, pounding down a ride, 
 reached the common just as the hounds, 
 running well together, passed over it in 
 front of him. Following in his wake,' 
 said Burton, ' were Melville, Hardy, Lee, 
 John Parker, Miller, and myself ; our horses 
 well in hand, and ourselves ready to cut 
 out Avork for the best of them. As the 
 hounds half checked and feathered by the 
 pool, Will's whip-hand stopped us; then, 
 as they Avent on again up the grass-lands 
 for Lilton village, we gave our steeds their 
 heads, and put them to it. For more than 
 twenty minutes, my boys, we had it to our- 
 selves,' said he, ' hard and fast ; for not a 
 soul could live with us ; and as we rode to- 
 gether, each on his own line, we took our 
 fences in our stride, and went like pigeons.
 
 218 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 'Passing Thriftlands by the shrubbery 
 — you know the swing-gate,' said Charlie — 
 ' we skirted the gravel-pits, and made for 
 Haines; then bending to the left, we crossed 
 Croome Hill, and went on by the Elms to 
 Tedby, and from thence to the ash-beds, 
 and through the fold at Trew's; and then, 
 with a ring round the outbuildings there, 
 where he failed to effect a lodgment, Ave 
 pushed him through the brook in the mea- 
 dows, and put his nose straight for Hor- 
 ton's, the tops of whose kilns we could see 
 before us ; the hounds,' said Burton, ' run- 
 ning at that time almost in view, and with 
 scent breast high. 
 
 " We cannot stay to try yom' barland 
 this time, Tom," said Miller to Sleyford, 
 who had nicked across country, and had 
 just come up with us ; " the pace won't 
 allow it.'' 
 
 "No,'' was the reply; " but you shall as 
 we come back, if we do but kill."
 
 INTO THE river" AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 219 
 
 ' A good fellow is Tom/ said Burton. 
 
 ' Just as we thought,' said Charlie, ' the 
 fox had missed the water, and we were right 
 for Brookwood, a sheep-dog made a dash 
 at him, and he went straight for the river 
 like an otter. 
 
 "Confound that!" said Hardy, as the 
 hounds swung round. " Now how shall we 
 get over ?" 
 
 "Wait, my dear fellow^, till he has 
 crossed," I said, continued Burton, " and 
 watch the varmint !" 
 
 " He might swim down the side," said 
 Lee, " and then come out again ; I have 
 known it happen." 
 
 " Not he," said Hardy ; " the one we have 
 up is a straight one, George, there is no 
 mistake about it. Before he hangs a yard 
 he w4ll make his point, you'll see ; that is 
 if hounds Avill let him, for they are pretty 
 close to him. 
 
 "He is over then, safe enough; look
 
 220 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 there !" said Hardy. "That fellow in the field 
 seems going frantic, as if he had not long 
 to live, poor wretch! — quite off his head, 
 that's clear. The first time he has seen a 
 fox perhaps; if so, excusable. Well, gen- 
 tlemen,'' said Hardy, " we are sold ! The 
 water is all out ; we are done ! Here is off", 
 for one, for home! The hounds are gone, 
 and we can't get over; and if we tried the 
 bridge, they would be so far by then that 
 we should not catch them.'' 
 
 ' So Hardy left,' said Burton. 
 
 ' To know that " Charley" was over the 
 water, and the pack on good terms with 
 him, was, however, quite enough for me,' 
 said Burton ; ' the game hounds had a hard 
 struggle to cross though, so I raced for it 
 and I had it! I stopped the "field," swam 
 the river, and got the brush ; and here it is, 
 my bonny boys, and a fizzer too !' cried 
 he, as he flourished it above him with a 
 'Tally 0!'
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 221 
 
 'How did you manage it?' said Warden. 
 
 'I will tell you,' said Charlie. 'You 
 know that big pasture piece by Langley 
 Wood, between Horton's and Brookwood, 
 that skirts the hop-yards ? As we jumped 
 into it,' said he, 'the hounds were near, 
 and going at a rattling pace straight for 
 the river, with the confounded sheep-dog 
 ahead of them ! Well, we of course knew 
 by the silence of the weir it was then brim- 
 full ; but to turn for the lanes, as a lot of 
 them were doing, was to miss the finish; 
 so, catching the music of the hounds as 
 they were streaming up the banks, we raced 
 for the withy beds, the j\liller shouting to 
 us as we neared the mill, "The water's out 
 and half-way up the wheel; go back!" 
 
 'And so it was,' said Charlie, 'through 
 some heavy weather somewhere up the 
 country aiding the storm we had a week 
 ago ; the river rushing by us as red as 
 marl. But that did not matter, for the
 
 222 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 hounds were on ; so his nois}^ warnings were 
 of no use whatever, at least to me,' said 
 Burton; 'but that we should be drowned 
 seemed certain to him. There was no need 
 therefore to say that he had not hunted — 
 poor timid wretch ! — for he would have had 
 more thought if he had, and have been 
 more reasonable, as the hounds were over.' 
 
 'But you can't swim,' said Raymond, 
 ' can you?' 
 
 'Not a stroke,' said Charlie. 
 
 ' I wonder you risked it, then,' said 
 Warden. 
 
 ' But could you have stayed, now, Fred, 
 had you been there ? No, not a bit of it, I 
 know,' said Burton warmly. ' The hounds 
 were across, so into it we went, when swish 
 came the water over the saddle-boAV, and 
 splash I had it in the eyes; but with a 
 plunge or two forwards, that sent a shower- 
 bath all over us, we were soon in mid- 
 stream, where, caught by the rush of the
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 223 
 
 Avater, wo got swept,' said Charlie, 'right 
 round the corner by the mill-Avheel.' 
 
 'You mad-brained fellow,' said Warden, 
 'it was a mercy you were not droAvned, 
 horse and all !' 
 
 ' You know the old saying,' was the 
 reply. 
 
 'Lifted by the swirl,' continued he, 'and 
 swino-ino-down the river with the flood, we a;ot 
 buffeted by the bushes and bumped against 
 the trees, and we seemed in for a settler 
 plump against the boat-house. Missed, how- 
 ever, by a twist, we grated through the 
 reeds — a nasty bit, as they were under 
 water, big bulrushes, and might have 
 held us — and then we hit the bunk, which 
 turned us round and very nearly over, and 
 drove us on against a little island. 
 
 ' But still there was no chance to land ; 
 for the flood, though it got divided there, 
 was far too swift and the bushes too close. 
 
 ' So keeping her well in hand,' said
 
 224 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. 
 
 Charlie, 'and her head straight, I sat her 
 motionless, and let her drift to where the 
 river widens past some meadows, and there 
 she steadied ; so it was then all plain sail- 
 ing,' said he. 'So letting her float on to get 
 her wind, I bore gently across the stream 
 and slewed her round, and touched the bot- 
 tom on a sandy shallow, w^here, dripping 
 as she was, the dear old thing! I let her 
 stand,' said Burton, ' to feel her feet a bit 
 and to think it over, I patting her wet neck 
 and talking to her, the darling beauty ! 
 
 ' It was only for a minute though,' said 
 he; 'for with a whinny her head was round 
 and up, and her eyes were bright, and her 
 ears well forwards listening for the hounds, 
 like the good mare she is.' 
 
 ' A rare mare,' Warden said, ' that's cer- 
 tain, Charlie.' 
 
 ' She is a clipper, Fred !' said he; 'a per- 
 fect hunter! She heard them evidently,' 
 continued Burton, 'though I did not; for
 
 INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 252 
 
 the river's roar still hung about my ears, 
 it was so loud. Champing at her bit, she 
 began to fret; so I let her then make for 
 an ash-bed, and though it was crumbling 
 stuff, and loose and rotten, she scrambled 
 up the bank in a minute, and poked her 
 way between the stubs and branches till we 
 got to the boundary fence, which she then 
 jumped like a greyhound,' 
 
 ' What a plucky old girl !' said Warden. 
 ' Many a mare would have been beaten, 
 driven along by the flood as she was.' 
 
 'That's certain,' said Charlie. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 THE RUN FROM HENLEY — A AVET JACKET FOR 
 A WHITE TIP. 
 
 'We were near getting a purler, though,' 
 continued Burton, ' for the drop was a 
 deejD one; the place being a holloway, and 
 the spot, as I found,' said Charlie, ' close 
 by where we met the gipsies the day we 
 were fishing there below the ford.' 
 
 ' I remember it,' said Warden. 
 
 ' Who told our fortunes, and who pro- 
 mised us riches — those dark-eyed girls with 
 whom you had a chatter, and fell in love 
 with for their blue-black hair. 0, don't 
 deny it,' said Charlie; 'it was quite excus- 
 able.' 
 
 ' Not I, Charlie, but you,' said Warden.
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 227 
 
 ' 0, 1 know better, Fred,' replied Charlie. 
 ' I never saw a fellow cut like you were. 
 Sonnets for a month, at least, was what 1 
 looked for, on olive skins and wicked hazel 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Well, seeing then,' said he, ' the line 
 of country, I put her on the turf, and can- 
 tered on to where the hounds had crossed 
 below the mill; when some one shouting 
 out to me,' said Charlie, ' I looked over the 
 river, and saw Will and Parker by the side 
 of it, pounding along and on a level with 
 us. 
 
 ' It seems,' said Burton, ' that when we 
 were swept downwards by the flood, they 
 followed through the gates along the fields 
 to see the ending of it; but finding that 
 when we got beyond the island we steadied, 
 they turned again to get round by the 
 bridge, and so try to. catch the hounds, as 
 they knew then that we should not come 
 to grief, at least that journey.
 
 228 THE EUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 ' Though they did have the start of us,' 
 said he, ' we came in level, as we went by 
 the side of the water, and they had to go 
 round through the gates. " Come, put the 
 gray in, Warne ; don't hesitate, you craven 
 fellow," I shouted out,' said Charlie, 'as 
 Will stood looking. " Below^ there, where 
 .1 landed. If you don't flurry him, you 
 will get him over. Come, come on ! You'll 
 never see your hounds else all the morning, 
 you stupid fellow; for, all the fresher for 
 the bath they had, they are slick away by 
 now, straio^ht for the hills, and with a blaz- 
 ing scent. Come, come along ! Give him 
 a lead, Parker," I said ; " now don't be 
 cowards !" ' 
 
 ' They evidently thought discretion the 
 better part of valour,' said Raymond. 
 
 ' I think so,' said Burton. 
 
 ' But,' continued Charlie, ' " Too deep," 
 said Will; and "It's far too swift," said 
 Parker ; " we shall go down the meadows
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 229 
 
 to the bridge." " Three down and three 
 up," I said, "just six long miles; so Tally ! 
 my boys. Here's off for hounds. I mean 
 to try to see the run if no one else does, if 
 I can only once drop in with them." 
 
 ' Turning her head up-hill,' said Bur- 
 ton, ' I reached the banks as Will and 
 Parker started for the bridge, a longish 
 rounder. Up at the top, a good backing 
 to some cottages, there is a large hr-wood,' 
 said he, ' Crow Coppice, round which I gal- 
 loped to the farther end, as from there I 
 knew I could see a long way up the valley, 
 and might spy hounds ; and I then drew 
 rein,' said Charlie, ' to breathe the mare 
 and listen. 
 
 ' The sweep of country that you get 
 from there is certainly worth seeing,' said 
 he; 'and I thought of Archer. Had he 
 been with us yesterday, as he hoped to be, 
 I think it would have chained him to the 
 spot; for he is fond of such scenes, as he
 
 230 THE RUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 finds in them more or less of that fine form 
 and colour that he sees in most country 
 subjects, and on which, once give him rein, 
 he likes to dwell. " I see the hounds," said 
 he, " but very little else besides the fences.'' 
 
 ' But he is such a fellow,' said Charlie; 
 * he has eyes for all, and seems to see that 
 which most others would be sure to miss ; 
 and yet he never fails to keep a good place 
 with hounds. That men do not see all 
 things alike is very evident. A man has 
 eyes for that he thinks most of; not that 
 I cannot " see" things when they are shown 
 me, but as I go,' said he, ' I pass them — he 
 observes. And so it is, at least I fancy so, 
 that even on blank days he never grumbles. 
 Quite an enthusiast,' said Charlie, 'is Mas- 
 ter Archer. 
 
 ' While gently on the move,' said he, 
 ' I looked and listened ; but I could not see 
 the hounds, nor could I hear them, though 
 the wind met me ; when, as I had again to
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 281 
 
 check the mare for her impatience, the tiny 
 tinkle of a sheep-bell reached me, like sheep 
 disturbed. And then some jays flew about 
 from tree to tree, with a cry and a chatter; 
 and sparrows rustled up in the bushes ; 
 and some magpies went away, and dropped 
 into an elm-tree in a dingle. 
 
 ' That looked, I thought, just like a fox 
 afoot, and I wondered how far by then the 
 hounds were with the hunt one. When 
 all at once, not fifty yards ahead, I spied,' 
 said Charlie, ' the black-tipped nose of lley- 
 nard through the hedgerow ; then out he 
 jimiped, and without looking round, he 
 went off lazily, and reached a drain-hole 
 under some thorns and briers that over- 
 hung it. 
 
 ' I saw it was our hunt-fox by his move, 
 and by the dirty brush that he trailed after 
 him ; so I felt that it was all up with him,' 
 said he, ' and that I was safe for the finish, 
 and his " white tip" mine. There's a beauty
 
 232 THE KUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 for you,' said Charlie, as he held up the 
 brush admiringly ; ' as fluffy as possible, 
 and as soft as wool. Just feel it. 
 
 ' Quieting the mare,' said he, ' who with 
 pricked ears and dilated nostrils trembled 
 with excitement, as she saw the fox and 
 heard the distant challeno-e of the hounds 
 as they turned towards us — the fox, it seems, 
 was headed — I waited their swing up the 
 valley and their dash through the cover, 
 and then, as they came on bounding over 
 the fence, I caj)ped them to his hiding- 
 place ; and with a shout of " Tally 0, 
 away !" I put him up,' said Burton, ' almost 
 in the midst of them. 
 
 ' They raced him for a field or two, 
 then tumbled on to him and chopped him. 
 Time, one hour and forty minutes ; and he 
 was as fine a dog-fox as you ever saw ! 
 
 ' AVith a wild " Who-whoop !" ' said he, 
 ' I was on my feet, and laying about me 
 lustily; then lodging the carcass by a
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 233 
 
 luck}' fling in a big burr-oak, I coached 
 the hounds off, lit my pipe, and sat down 
 by them, the mare grazing alongside me 
 quietly enough, with Harold and Daunt- 
 less sniffing at her heels, and the whole 
 pack baying round her ; when, feeling for 
 the first time that I had been in for a good 
 wetting,' said Charlie, ' and that keeping 
 still Avould not mend the mare or me, I 
 slipped my arm through the reins, and 
 briskly circled the hounds "with her again 
 and again, they continuing to bay and to 
 jump against the tree, in their vain efforts 
 to get at the fox. 
 
 , ' Still no one came,' said he, ' but a few 
 loafing labourers, all eyes and dialect ; and 
 I scarcely knew how to act, as I did not 
 like to " brush" the fox, nor did I care to 
 wait. So getting one of the rustics to move 
 the mare about, clear of hounds, I got up 
 in the tree, by using my whip freely ; and 
 to my great joy — as I could not have left
 
 234 THE EUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 the hounds — I saw horsemen in the dis- 
 tance, evidently,' said he, ' thrown out, and 
 on the listen. 
 
 'Waving my handkerchief,' said Bur- 
 ton, 'and shouting for very life, with any 
 quantity of Tally Os and Who-whoops, till 
 you may have heard the hounds' " bay" for 
 miles, I put them on the move; and by 
 the time I began,' said he, ' to think that I 
 must either throw the fox down or have 
 the hounds up. Will, Parker, the whips, and 
 a few others, came trotting towards us ; 
 they having pounded for the bridge, and 
 been not only completely thrown out, but 
 also, as I was glad to find, the cowardly 
 fellows,' said Burton, ' in for a regular leg- 
 wetting there in the flood that was over the 
 road.' 
 
 'You ungrateful imp!' said Warden. 
 ' Why, they first of all hindered their own 
 time to see after you, and fish you out if 
 you needed it !'
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 235 
 
 'Yes,' said Charlie grumblingly ; 'and 
 so do the coroner out of his fee, and lose 
 the hounds into the bargain. I don't be- 
 lieve in it,' said he. ' No man ought to hunt 
 unless he can take care of himself; and 
 with hounds going, and a good fox in front 
 of them, nothing should stop him.' 
 
 ' Not even an impracticable fence ?' said 
 Warden, who remembered one he himself 
 failed to negotiate a week or two previ- 
 ously. 
 
 'No fence whatever,' said Burton; 'be- 
 cause you can always manage to tumble 
 over it or roll through it if it is too big to 
 jump ; and when you are once on the other 
 side of it, why you can pick yourself up 
 and go on.' 
 
 ' You are a funny fellow,' said Warden. 
 
 ' Chaffing and fraternising,' continued 
 Charlie, 'we broke up the fox, compared 
 notes, and brought the hounds home ; and 
 may I never,' said he, as he held up the
 
 236 THE RUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 brush to tliem, 'have a worse finish to a 
 good run than this, my boys, or ever 
 grudge a wet jacket for a white tip. Friends 
 both, I looks towards you. Here's " Our 
 noble selves, and success to hunting !" ' 
 
 ' A good toast : drink it uj:),' said War- 
 den. ' More power to your elbow, my dear 
 fellow. Pcdmam qui meruit ferat — may the 
 best man win !' 
 
 ' You will have a large cold over that 
 lot, I should think,' said Raymond. 
 
 ' Not unlikely ; it will have been in a 
 good cause though, if I do,' said Burton. 
 
 ' Now,' said AVarden, ' will you two fel- 
 lows have some more wine ?' 
 
 ' No more for me ;' ' Nor for me,' they 
 replied. 
 
 ' Then if you won't,' said he, ' I will ring 
 for coffee.' 
 
 Burton and Raymond, whose roads lay 
 together — their farms adjoining — stayed 
 chatting there until the moon was up, so as
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 237 
 
 to have it all the lighter for their walk. 
 Outside the village they came up with 
 Styles — Tom Styles the earthstopper — who 
 was just starting to go up into the woods, 
 Avith Barnes the blacksmith, to make things 
 safe for next mornino^'s huntino^ • for though 
 the meet was fixed for five miles from 
 there — at Highdown Hill — unless hounds 
 found at once and went away, they would 
 be pretty sure to draw on through the hill- 
 covers, and reach there. So Tom was off 
 on duty with his chum. 
 
 As it was a most jolly night, with a 
 nice sniff of frost that made them enjoy it, 
 they turned into the wood along Avith them ; 
 it being in fact, were it not for the time it 
 took to climb it, a much nearer way for 
 them than by road. 
 
 Styles was at home, of course, at all 
 times there, and so was the blacksmith, who 
 was a most rank old poacher, and knew 
 each place where they must pick their feet
 
 238 THE RUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 up ; but fairly in the wood, Raymond and 
 Charlie Burton both kept stumbling over 
 the drips and ruts, and roots and things, 
 for it was so dark there. 
 
 However, the higher they went, the 
 lighter it got ; and after staying nearly two 
 hours there poking about the wood with 
 them, and handling the mattocks for the 
 fun of the thing, they left them, to work 
 their way up in the dim light to the old 
 stile at the top of the wood, through the 
 briers and bushes, as all the pathway 
 there had wholly vanished ; having dropt 
 into the dingle through a large landslip, 
 that after the great storm a week ago, that 
 set all the brooks on and made waterfalls 
 in the woods, brought down tons of soil 
 into the gullies, considerably astonishing 
 the rabbits, and scaring all the owls and 
 sundry badgers. 
 
 It also scared that old witch. Creep, 
 'the charmer,' who Avas out there by her
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A AVHITE Tir. 239 
 
 hut — a charcoal-burner's — and doing incan- 
 tations, with notched sticks, for warts, and 
 lovers, fits, things lost, and property, cutting 
 and burying them with mumbled words. 
 She thought her time come, but she touched 
 her charms and shook her beads, and then 
 she sang out ' Jacob !' as she made a cross 
 and circle with her crutch ; then flopping 
 on her knees, she said ' Amen' backwards, 
 ten to the minute, till her breath was gone ; 
 and then got up and shook herself, a good 
 one, and turning round three times, rapped 
 her tobacco-box, and so felt better. 
 
 Such was at least the tale the keeper 
 told, who Avas out on the watch there and 
 said he saw her, and that if there was one 
 black cat out with her that night, he knows 
 that he saw fifty. She keeps but five though ; 
 but as perhaps they too were twisting ' ten 
 to the minute,' they might have seemed 
 fifty to him. 
 
 At length, by climbing over the soil and
 
 240 THE RUN FROM HENLEY. 
 
 pushing through the bushes, they reached 
 the stile at the top, and got over it on to the 
 sheep-walk just above the wood, where the 
 hill, flattened at the top, shelved downwards, 
 throuo-h oforse and ferns, into a hollow, and 
 then, sloped by undulations to a valley, 
 which, taking a crescent sweep, joined fur- 
 ther on Avith the same valley that the}^ had 
 just come out of 
 
 And while they stood there upon the 
 sheep-walk before descending, they could 
 not resist the impulse of exclamation — little 
 as either of them was accustomed to be 
 influenced by impressions of the beautiful — 
 as they saw the whole country round bathed 
 in the moonlight; the Teme beneath them 
 white between the willows, and the meadows 
 silvery where the wood-shadows cut them. 
 
 ' You will have it fine,' said Raymond, 
 ' for the fixture.' 
 
 'I don't know that,' said Burton; 'for 
 there is just a trace of halo round the
 
 A WET JACKET FOR A WHITE TIP. 241 
 
 moon, and I can hear the weir, so the wmd 
 is this way. The woodpeckers — " oecles," as 
 they call them round here — were on too all 
 the morning, and the sky was low. I fancy 
 myself there will be rain before long, and 
 a good thing too if there is,' said he ; 'it will 
 help the scent, my boy, and give us all a 
 right good rattling gallop.' 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN — THE STORM 
 AND THE CLEARING. 
 
 ' Well, old man,' said Archer, looking 
 in at the studio, ' I thought I should find 
 you here. Still at work I see, and as busy- 
 as ever. How goes the picture? Have you 
 finished it ? If the price will suit, I know a 
 customer ; and so I thought I would have a 
 ride over and tell you.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Johnson. ' How are you ? 
 There is the picture then, "Storm clearing;" 
 this is for a companion,' said he, ' "Approach- 
 ing Storm ;'' ' and Johnson placed the pic- 
 tures on the easel, side by side. ' Do you 
 like them?' 
 
 'Yes, very much,' said Archer; 'they
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 243 
 
 make a tidy pair. Now you have finished 
 that, it looks right well ; those cows make 
 quite a point against the blue. I thought 
 they would,' said he. 
 
 'That is thanks to you, then, for the 
 hints you gave me. How about this one, 
 Archie ?' 
 
 ' A selling-looking picture,' was the ans- 
 wer, ' and the better of the two, if you 
 don't " scamp" it. What will the figure 
 be, do you think, for those when framed,' 
 said Archer — ' twelve ten a piece ?' 
 
 'No, twelve the pair; that's quite their 
 worth, I'm very sure,' said Johnson. 
 
 'Well, you know best, but that is far 
 too cheap; I Avill get him call and see them 
 when they are finished.' 
 
 ' Had you been here but half an hour 
 ago,' said Johnson, 'you would have met 
 with Fred, who asked about you.' 
 
 'What, Collins?' 
 
 ' Yes, I told him of the ride he missed,
 
 244 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN, 
 
 through dingle scenery that he is so fond 
 of, and which, as 3'ou described it, was 
 worth seeing. He had just come in by 
 train ; he has been to Town ; but as he 
 wanted to be o-ettino; on — he leaves at 
 twelve — he could not stay. If we should 
 go some day,' said Johnson, 'to see that 
 brook, he has promised he will join us with 
 a block. He is good at umber-work, and 
 black-and-white, but he seldom colours. 
 " Front's brown" he swears by.' 
 
 'Look here, old man,' said Archer, 
 criticising ; ' I think those figures there are 
 scarcely right ; the cows and sheep should 
 all be lying doAvn, not up, as you have got 
 them ; I saw and watched the very thing 
 on Tuesday.' 
 
 'Why, were you not with hounds at 
 Rookwood, then?' said Johnson. 
 
 ' Most certainly I was ; but when I am 
 out, and as you ought to know,' said Archer, 
 ' I have eyes for hounds and also eyes for
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 245 
 
 nature ; and as there came a storm, I 
 thought of you, — you and your picture; and 
 so,' said he, ' I watched the coming and the 
 clearing of it, over just such a sweep of 
 country as 3^ou have there. 
 
 'A case in point now, Johnson, and 
 what I dwell on. If }'0u would hunt, I 
 am certain,' Archer said, 'that it would 
 pay you ; but you don't, and you won't. 
 So that which you might have seen for 
 yourself and utilised, when you returned 
 with it all fresh before you, I must now,' 
 said he, ' furnish you with at second-hand ; 
 as it is just possible you might perhaps 
 jret a hint or two from it that would mend 
 your picture.' 
 
 ' Well, Avait a bit,' said Johnson ; ' I 
 Avant to use this tint while I see form. If I 
 look off it, I shall miss or mull it. My eye's 
 " m" now. 
 
 ' All right, old fellow ; don't let me dis- 
 turb you. Tiney ! come here, you rascal ; I
 
 246 SUNSHINE AFTEK RAIN. 
 
 never saw you. Come, doggie ! You ought 
 to take him out, not pen him here,' said 
 Archer, patting him. 
 
 ' I do so,' Johnson answered, ' when I 
 can ; and I should take him with me oftener, 
 but he is such a dog to race about and bark 
 at everything and everybody — the noisy 
 little scamp ! His weakness too for rabbits 
 gets him wired, which often hinders my 
 time to get him out again ; and wben I do 
 release him, he is no sooner out than he is 
 in again. He is a perfect turk, in fact,' 
 said he, ' at fur and feathers ; and when I 
 am able to get out for a few miles, if the 
 farmers see him racing about over their 
 grounds, they don't like it, I can tell you. 
 They half-suspect you are poaching ; and 
 if you enter into explanations, they think 
 the sketching but a mere excuse, and they 
 say, "Well, if you come, sir, please don't 
 bring the dog, or else, you see, the landlord 
 will be grumbling, and tell us we're har-
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 247 
 
 boiiring persons who destroy the game. 
 The game we keep, sir, for other folks to 
 kill, at injury to our crops and no pay for 
 it." So that you see, Archie, I have to 
 leave him here, when very often I should 
 like his company. He has his scurry, how- 
 ever, night and morning, along the mea- 
 dows, and chivies the ducks at the ferry ; 
 don't you, you rascal?' said Johnson ; ' so 
 he does not do amiss. Be quiet, Tiney ! Set- 
 tle him down, will you ?' said he, as Tiney's 
 attentions became too obtrusive, ' and keep 
 him by you ; for when it takes him that 
 way, he will start with sudden dash across 
 my box, and make the colours fly, if I hap- 
 pen just to scratch the canvas while I am 
 working. Such sound is "mouse" to 
 him. Mouse on the brain has Tiney, that is 
 certain. Show him a bit of sugar, John, 
 and then he'll stay there ; or put it on his 
 nose, and that will fix him. Did you have 
 a good day on Tuesday ?'
 
 248 SUNSHINE AFTEE RAIN. 
 
 ' A fairish ending,' was the reply ; ' but 
 a bad beginning.' 
 
 ' Well, what did you see besides the 
 storm to tell a fellow ?' 
 
 ' 0, a decent bit or two, as we went on 
 again,' said Archer, ' after the rain had 
 ceased and the storm passed over.' 
 
 'How does that look now?' said John- 
 son. 
 
 ' Better,' said Archer ; ' but leave it 
 till I have said my say and told my story. 
 Work at the cows,' said he, ' and put them 
 well in grass ; all down, and half asleep.' 
 
 ' Stay ! Begin at the beginning,' John- 
 son said ; ' then I am with you.' 
 
 ' It would be too long,' said Archer, ' and 
 would only tire you ; so I must skip it. 
 Besides, at first, though we had a pretty 
 find at Rookwood, hounds could not run, 
 for there was no scent Avhatever — not a 
 particle ; but just as some of us thought of 
 turning ofi'for home, disgusted, indications
 
 THE STOKM AND THE CLEARING. 249 
 
 of rain showed themselves. The cattle down 
 below us in the fields had ceased to graze 
 now you, you see, have got them up and 
 gi'azing. The sheep lay huddled with their 
 noses down, each in the grass ; and they 
 are up also in your picture, Johnson ; and 
 woodpeckers were on the move and noisy, 
 flying low from bough to bough with 
 warning cry, and hurrying on ; the robins 
 too kept twittering on the thorns ; and on 
 the trees the dead leaves were all tremulous, 
 their rustlings audible. And a cold wind 
 came, that made us shrug our shoulders 
 and move our horses on, to stir our blood ; 
 and even the hounds drew lazily and 
 seemed irresolute. That looked like rain, 
 old man,' said Archer, ' and soon we had it 
 — a perfect downpour ! But we all were 
 glad of it. 
 
 ' Above us, inky clouds, lit up a-top, 
 with half-tints deep down in amongst the 
 shadows, Avere moving rapidly and changing
 
 250 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 
 
 form — a sure sign, Johnson. A flood of 
 light too, next a rainy distance — like that 
 you have there — though still unblotched, 
 was narrowing visibly. As the storm 
 neared, the sky became one tint, changing 
 from blue-black to a dull steel-gray — yours 
 is too slatey — with curved lines sweeping 
 doAvnwards to the earth — ay, there you are 
 right,' said he — 'and coming swiftly on 
 to where we were, under some branching 
 oaks, on chance of shelter. 
 
 'Then, Johnson, it got dark, and big 
 drops fell, and wet first one bit by us, 
 then another, as we scrooged closer in 
 amongst the bushes, till, with a rattling 
 patter overhead, the rain came down with 
 sj^lash, that sent a shower of dead leaves 
 from the trees, and trickled from the hard 
 ground as it fell, until the steady downpour 
 at last let it in, and so made softer going 
 for our horses. 
 
 ' Talk of " storm clearing," Johnson !
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 251 
 
 well, I saw it,' said Archer; 'as good a bit 
 as you could wish to see. Yours there is 
 good, old fellow, but that was different ; so 
 I will tell you all about it if you like. It 
 might come in.' 
 
 ' It might,' said Johnson ; ' so let us 
 have it, Archie.' . 
 
 ' We got wet through of course,' said 
 he, ' for boughs were bare ; but as the rain 
 brought scent, that did not matter. Well, 
 Johnson, in half an hour or so the storm 
 passed over, and rolled on up the valley 
 for the hills; for it got lurid there, and 
 thundered heavily. And as the clouds that 
 it left broke up, they made a rift in the sky 
 that let the blue in, as I suggested in that 
 picture there,' said Archer, ' and framed 
 the landscape ; and showed, behind the 
 storm and under sunny clouds, a sweep of 
 splendid country in the distance. 
 
 ' The vaUey lying in a mellow haze, like 
 that Cuyp, Johnson, that we saw at Dulwich,
 
 252 SUNSHINE AFTER EAIN. 
 
 and quite as luminous, ended in hills, soft- 
 ened in shape, and of a warm gray hue, and 
 touched with purple in their deepest sha- 
 dows ; and all their forms were half defined 
 and blended, being misty in the thickened 
 air about them. And then,' said Archer, 
 ' when the sun burst through, it sent a 
 ripple of bright light across it, that showed, 
 in what was haze, trees, tower, and spire.' 
 
 ' I have seen the same effect myself,' 
 said Johnson. ' It is very nice. That 
 gradual dawning, as it Avere, of form, and 
 the growing into shape of trees and hills, 
 is worth the watchins:. I think few thino-s 
 are finer than the clothing of a valley with 
 its woods — the burst of beauty when its 
 mists withdraw. You see,' said he, 'that 
 I have noticed it, and watched it often, 
 though, Archie, I don't hunt. 
 
 ' You hunting men,' said Johnson, ' may 
 gain in this way. As you are out in wea- 
 ther we should shirk, you get efi*ects that
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 2-53 
 
 we perhaps should very often miss. Also 
 in distance, you ride more miles each time, 
 we'll say, than we could walk; and also 
 go where we could not well go if merely 
 sketching ; and so,' said he, ' I have no 
 doubt that you often get amongst the woods 
 and hills some first-rate bits, gloriously 
 Avild and suitable for canvas, that in a 
 beaten track would be but tame. 
 
 ' And when you are on the move, from 
 high ground too,' said he, ' as in the valley 
 country — our own sweet valley. Archer — 
 easy on horseback, but not so on foot, you 
 get such transitory things — gleams, lights, 
 cloud-shadows, mists, and atmosphere, that 
 they are always useful to a fellow; that I 
 must own,' said Johnson, ' for you have 
 told me, John, so many times about them.' 
 
 ' Come, I like that ; now that is good,' 
 said Archer. ' You'll hunt in time. It is 
 just what I maintain, that artist eyes see 
 all there is out hunting, and artists get
 
 254 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 
 
 material that makes money, and cheaper 
 too, old man, that way than any other, as 
 they get more in a given time, and better 
 too, from speedier locomotion and ability 
 to go just where they please, or at least 
 where hounds go. Of course,' said Archer, 
 'I only speak of observation, that serves 
 you in good stead when at the easel, as en- 
 abling you to make much of " accidental" 
 form, and to reproduce mental photographs 
 of tints and tones, and hues and shades, that 
 perhaps were too fleeting to be sketched ; 
 or "bits" and groupings that you could 
 merely notice. But for actual studies, 
 Johnson, you must sit down by them. 
 That " goes without the telling." ' 
 
 ' You are right,' said Johnson. ' I in- 
 terrupted you though, old fellow, in ^^the 
 clearing." ' 
 
 '0 well,' said Archer; 'as I said, 'twas 
 good. As the light spread over the woods 
 and on the vale below, there burst upon
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEARING. 255 
 
 the view,' said he, ' distinct and clear, and 
 in mid-distance, deep dips and hillocks, 
 woods and sheen of water, old farms and 
 country churches, and ivied houses, with 
 quaint old gable-ends and chimney-stacks, 
 red roofs and shedding. And nearer still, 
 with soft cloud-shadows on it, a river-sweep 
 of yellow winter grass, dotted with cows 
 and sheep, now up and grazing. Now 
 don't you see,' said Archer, 'with cattle 
 rightly placed, you aid the feeling?' 
 
 ' Just so,' said Johnson. 
 
 ' The belt of woods below, being soaked 
 with rain, gave out the resin odour of the 
 pines, whose ruddy stems, in sandy hollows 
 that were near to us — you know the glori- 
 ous colour that they have,' said Archer — 
 ' merged from beneath the banks with 
 twisted roots. And as we went along, all 
 things seemed freshened; for the air was 
 clear,' said he, ' and the sky looked high, 
 and shadows from the trees fell on the turf.
 
 256 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 
 
 into the red dead leaves and long wet 
 grasses, that lay in heaps and matted 
 masses by the oaks. The larches dripped 
 into the golden fern, and every purple 
 spray showed beady drops ; the birds were 
 on the move, and some in song; and all 
 around us seemed instinct with life, bare 
 though the trees were, and the month No- 
 vember. 
 
 'And as we rode on,' said he, 'some 
 jays flew out and settled in the firs, and 
 sheep got up and nibbled at the grass, and 
 rooks dropped on the plough, for easy cap- 
 tures now the soil was wetted. A cloud of 
 Avood-pigeons too rose up, and swooped as 
 suddenly ; and twisted hawthorns, creamed 
 with bloom in summer, but bare of leaves 
 and berried over now, had sAvift-winged 
 visitors that stole the fruit. Storm over, 
 Johnson ! 
 
 ' And as we rode along the lanes,' said 
 Archer. ' we saw the blue sky in the rain-
 
 THE STOEM AND THE CLEARING. 257 
 
 washed channels, between sundry j)atches 
 of bright bits of colour, from pebble-stones 
 that A\erc no longer dusty. The big bents 
 in the hedgerows hung their heads, and 
 trailed into the ditch, all wet and heavy; 
 and every cup-like leaf had M'ater in it. 
 The close crisp turf that lay beside the 
 road shone in the sun,' said he, 'and 
 seemed to sparkle over; and the meadow 
 at the end looked emerald — wet from the 
 rain, and vivid as it was with contrast on 
 it, from the upturned dress and faded whi- 
 ter shawl — a gleam of white and red — of a 
 youngster, with a basket on her arm ; a 
 very pretty child, old man, I can assure 
 3'ou, and quite a modeL' 
 
 ' Look here a moment, Archie, inter- 
 rupting you,' said Johnson. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Archer, getting up and look- 
 ing at the picture ; ' you have that better 
 now ; the cows especially. 
 
 ' Well, we turned into this meadow with 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 
 
 the hounds, through a gate the rosy girl 
 held open for us, and who said her father 
 was a woodcutter, at work close by there 
 where we meant to draw, when the hounds, 
 at least, no longer paused to sniff the little 
 basket that she had, where lay his dinner ; 
 or wait more patting by the merry child, 
 who, being used to hounds, would pet and 
 play with them, AYill saw the man,' said 
 Archer; 'and as they had not commenced 
 to fell the timber, and there seemed good 
 lying, he said that he would try it, and 
 draw through it ; and so get on beyond 
 to Darnley Woods. 
 
 ' We kept the ground above,' continued 
 Archer; 'skirting the farms by ricks and 
 wainhouses. Such lumber there, my boy,' 
 said he ; ' rich browns and neutral tints, pale 
 straws and grays, and bits of blue and dabs 
 of brightest red, and splendid colour on old 
 rusty iron, half hidden amongst dock-leaves 
 and great thorns ; with white and speckled
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEAKIXG. t^59 
 
 fowls too perched about it, under some 
 branching ehns, by ragged shedding— a 
 mass of weather-stained old moss and thatch 
 —a "Birket Foster'' bit,' he said, ' that you 
 must see.' 
 
 ' Yes, that,' said rJohnson, ' ought to 
 come well, Archie, How can we reach it ?' 
 
 ' By rail to Darnley. It is close against 
 the common — another bit which I will tell 
 you of,' said Archer. 'While Will was 
 pointing for the Darnley Woods, hounds 
 down below him, we kept the teamroad on 
 along the fields, and waited at the common 
 till he came through the gate at the end 
 with them, "drawn blank,'' as we expected. 
 
 ' Well, Johnson, now about that com- 
 mon,' continued Archer; 'there's good ma- 
 terial there, heath-scenes and figures, gipsies 
 and tramps, with tents and stock-in-trade, 
 and water too, with fine Scotch firs and 
 lots of spotted cattle, and any quantity of 
 gray-green gorse. I also saw a half-bushed
 
 2 GO SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 
 
 gravel-pit, with men at work, and water at 
 the bottom; w^ierein the reflex of the sky 
 was seen, the sandy banks and dark lines 
 of the wagons, and just the pink nose of the 
 old gray horse, asleep or dozing. 
 
 ' Some solemn-looking donkeys too,' 
 said he, 'were there, tended by lads who 
 did not spare the stick, which they there- 
 fore — eh, Johnson ? — deserved themselves. 
 And there Avas a flock of gray geese from 
 a near farmyard, and three people rabbit- 
 ing ; the deep red vest of one man making 
 colour; and a round pool edged with wil- 
 lows near the road, with two buxom girls 
 — one stooping down for water — come from 
 the cottages, a lot of white ones ; a disused 
 saw-pit too,' said he, ' with schoolboys 
 playing, but leaving oft" at once at sight of 
 hounds ; and a wayside inn, or " ale-house'' 
 I should say, a most likely place no doubt 
 for scamps and poachers — with a wood-pile 
 at the back there by some pigsties ; a rare
 
 THE STORM AND THE CLEAIUXG. 2(U 
 
 good hiding-place for some old fox,' said 
 Archer; 'and on a cord, from a stable-looking 
 shed to an old tree stum.p just by some 
 ragged palings, there were some garments 
 flapping in a briskish wind ; a bright and 
 wavy line of shifting colour.' 
 
 ' A good bit that ; that's useful,' John- 
 son said. • 
 
 ' So that, you see, there are lots of things 
 there,' said Archer, 'to make a picture, and 
 where you would always find some decent 
 bits.' 
 
 'Ah, those commons are good places, 
 certainly,' said Johnson ; ' we will go there, 
 John.'
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY — JANE CLARE 
 AND JOHN ARCHER. 
 
 ' We then crossed the road,' continued 
 Archer, 'on to the turf, and cantered up 
 the hedf^e-side to the end of it ; when Will 
 led us up the lanes to some plantations ; 
 and then, as we did not do any good there, 
 we trotted on,' said he, ' with the hounds 
 to the woods — Darnley Woods, which 
 stretched, with a sweep of purply-brown 
 and gray, along the hills, and sloped down 
 to the village.' 
 
 ' Darnley ? Why, that,' said Johnson, ' is 
 where that view was from they made so 
 much of at the Old Water Colour. It 
 hung upon " the line," three from the cen-
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHER. 2bO 
 
 tre, and sold at the private view. Charles 
 BarroAV bought it. It had some cedars in it.' 
 
 ' Ay, I remember it,' said Archer. ' 0, 
 very likely; there are some round there; 
 lots of things, in fact, Johnson. Well, hop- 
 ing to get a straight thing on the grass, 
 now that the rain had been and laid the 
 scent, the hounds were put in at the 
 upper end ; and the moment they were in,' 
 said he, ' they winded him. 
 
 " I knew," cried Atherstone — }'ou know 
 old Atlier, Johnson? — "we'd find a fox- 
 Hark how they are on him ! Come, now? 
 that is good. Quick, push on. Archer, for 
 they will soon be out," said he. "Too-loo, 
 my boy ! we have got a run at last. That 
 rain was splendid. 
 
 " Hush ! there you are," said he ; " they 
 are out and gone away ; and if I am not 
 mistaken, straight for Luton. Here, nick 
 across these grounds,'' said Ather, " and save 
 the gates. 1 hate, those wickets ; a fence be-
 
 264 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 fore a gate for me, my boy. We'll take the 
 fences; they are nothing much, and there 
 is but one flight of rails. Come on." He is 
 always a straight-goer,' said Archer, ' and 
 a good one. 
 
 ' While many took the rides and rode 
 the cover, and then got on beyond it 
 through the gates, we turned our horses 
 at the fence,' said Archer, ' and dropped 
 into a meadow from the road ; and then 
 took our own line on a sweep of grass, that 
 curved beneath the woods up to the village; 
 so at a clinking gallop we cornered hounds, 
 and came up with them, going like the 
 wind, and tearing on across some small 
 enclosures, with deep-ditched hedgerows, 
 ditched on either side ; so that very soon 
 lots of the men were down, as in those 
 narrow slingity bits you get your second 
 fence too close on the first, and so,' said 
 he, 'you often get into the ditches, and stop 
 there.
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHER. 265 
 
 ' By pLiUiiig our horses together, how- 
 ever,' said Archer, ' we dropped them to ii 
 pace, and fled the fences, and did one of 
 them on and off, as we were too close to fly 
 it, and we very soon got placed; as the 
 hounds feathered as they crossed a road, 
 and then getting on to some dry plough 
 past the storm, slow-hunted. 
 
 'Being now well with them,' said Archer, 
 ' and with a nice little lot, and select, we 
 settled down to feel our seats a bit, and to 
 saving with the hounds fairly over the fences, 
 takins^ the rough and the smooth tog'ether, 
 just as they came. And then we tried to 
 cut each other down, and laughed at the purls 
 we had; as men Avill do, Johnson,' said he, 
 ' when their heads are loose ; when Ather, 
 who was just then riding rashly, spied that 
 young George Plill speeding for some rails, 
 that were snug in a corner, and a tempting 
 bit; the fence beside them being big and 
 brushy.
 
 266 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 " Just watcli me, John ; I'll cut him 
 do"\vii at those, the cheeky fellovr,' said 
 Ather, as he raced across the meadow. 
 
 ' Then reaching the rails, he took them 
 at an angle,' said Archer, ' right in the face 
 of him, and made his horse swerve, and so 
 sent poor Georgy flying, who dropped well 
 in the hedge up to his neck, and stuck 
 there; for we never saw an}'thing more of 
 him after that,' said he. 
 
 ' However, Johnson,' continued Archer, 
 ' retribution followed. Ather was racing 
 along with Marston for an "only" place, 
 in a stiff blackthorn-fence, across a pasture, 
 when each of them trvino; to be first 
 through it — as it was too high to get over 
 it — they cannoned, fell, and rolled; and 
 right between them, as they lay, well 
 grassed, Tom Taylor went and took it.' 
 
 ' Good,' said Johnson, laughing, as he 
 touched up the cows, and strengthened the 
 tint on the red one.
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN AKCIIER. 267 
 
 ' Well, for half an hour or more,' said 
 Archer, ' the pace was killing ; and as the 
 fences were good ones, the falls were not 
 few ; so before long, horses were loose and 
 galloping, thinking perhaps that, now the}^ 
 were by themselves, they should see more 
 of it than with their riders on them ; so 
 most of them took the fences and followed 
 the hounds Avell, as they often Avill do, John- 
 son, when,' said Archer, ' the}" have the 
 right stuff in them. 
 
 'We were now getting near to some 
 hanging covers,' said he, ' that lay beside a 
 long low ridgy hill ; Will doing all he could 
 do to kill his fox before he got there, lest we 
 changed. But though each hound strained 
 every nerve to reach him, pug took us to 
 the covers ; and there, hounds stood ! 
 
 " He's down !" cried Will, " for us to 
 find another. We'll nick him yet, the var- 
 mint ; hoick there, hoick ! Just thong that 
 hedgerow, will you, Mr. Archer? while I
 
 268 FLIRTATION IN THE FEENERY. 
 
 take this side," Will said, "and Dick the 
 other, and cast round." 
 
 ' Cracking my whip,' said Archer, ' I 
 rode up by the ditch ; and as I got near to 
 the end of it, out jumped the fox.' 
 
 'That was lucky, however,' said eTohn- 
 son. 
 
 ' It was,' said Archer. 
 
 'I gave "a view," and turning short 
 round, I topped the fence, and raced him 
 up a ride, to force him through ; Will and 
 Dick,' said he, ' meeting me with the hounds, 
 who owned at once, and went away mer- 
 rily. 
 
 ' Bustling them on with pretty well of 
 voice, we took the outer fence, and reached 
 the open, well rid of that long wood, as it 
 was so safe for foxes ; and they ran him 
 through some fields up to a park — where 
 deer half spoiled the scent — and down a 
 lane, and into some little gardens, behind 
 some cottages, just by a common ; where I,'
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN AnCIIER, 269 
 
 said Archer, 'just as they "viewed" him, 
 found a fore-shoe off. And so, confound 
 the thing, I came to grief, and had to seek 
 a smith.' 
 
 'A nuisance that,' said Johnson; 'so 
 you lost them?' 
 
 'I did,' said Archer; 'but I heard the 
 kill though, and I met them coming back 
 with the hounds, as I turned from the 
 shop.' 
 
 ' There, then,' said Johnson, putting 
 down his palette; ' now I'll leave off a bit.' 
 
 ' Ay, do,' said Archer. ' Come to the 
 Fox with me, and see my mare.' 
 
 'And how is Charlie now?' said John- 
 son, as he put up his brushes and prepared 
 to 2:0 out with Archer. 
 
 ' 0, never better,' replied Archer. ' He 
 is out three days a week, and leads the 
 ruck, at least most days.' 
 
 ' I heard he was at Warden's,' Johnson 
 said. ' He is lucky to have got off as he
 
 270 FLIRTATION IN THE rERNIiJUY. 
 
 has, the stupid fellow, after a wetting like 
 the one he had.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Archer, ' it was the day after 
 the run he was there. He was all right 
 then, and at Highdown — we had a good 
 thing from there, Johnson — but he has been 
 in for sciatica since then,' said he, ' pretty 
 stiffly.' 
 
 'And serve him right too,' said John- 
 son. 
 
 'Come, now, be merciful,' said Archer; 
 'for it was a plucky thing to do. Now 
 ■don't you think so '?' 
 
 ' Foolhardy, I should call it,' said John- 
 son ; ' but you hunt, I don't ; and that, you 
 perhaps will say, makes all the difference. 
 Are you but just come in, then?' 
 
 ' But an hour ago. I put up at the 
 Fox,' said Archer, ' and came straight here, 
 thinking it likely I should find you come, 
 ^s you are an early bird.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I generally get here by ten at
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHEK. 271 
 
 latest. A splendid morning ! I quite en- 
 joyed the walk,' said Johnson, ' down Se- 
 vern-side.' 
 
 ' And I the ride,' said Archer. 
 
 ' All well at home, John ?' 
 
 ' Quite well,' said Archer, ' thank you.' 
 
 So Johnson knew by that that Kate was 
 well. 
 
 'And how are all your people?' said 
 Archer. ' I called on Monday, hut they 
 were not at home.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Johnson, with a merry twinkle 
 of his eyes, ' it was a pity too that Jennie 
 was out ; and so would Jessie say when they 
 returned. They were gone to Malvern, 
 John ; I heard from them. Unfortunate, 
 upon m}' word, now, that it "was. I am 
 sorry for you.' 
 
 ' Now, don't,' said Archer. ' " Those who 
 live in glass houses," you know. If it is six 
 of one, it is half a dozen of the other.' 
 
 'Ah, well,' said Johnson, 'I suppose
 
 272 FLIRTATION IN THE FEUNERY. 
 
 some day or other we shall have to sink all 
 our old bachelor ways, and become respect- 
 able members of society. I vote we both 
 go up "for execution" on the same day, 
 old fellow.' 
 
 'With all my heart,' said Archer, 'if it 
 suits the ladies ; for Master Ned has an ap- 
 pointment in view, a three-hundred-a-year 
 affair, Johnson ; and if he takes it, as I sup- 
 pose he will — as he is getting rather tired of 
 the country, and it is a good thing — I must 
 see to the estate myself, or get somebody 
 to do so for me ; and as you seem to have 
 made up your mind to take my housekeeper 
 away — I think you and Kate are about 
 settled on that point, eh, Johnson ? — why, 
 the best thing I can do,' said Archer, ' as I 
 cannot take yours — she is a dear good girl 
 though ; I wish I could have had her — ' 
 
 ' She will never marry, John.' 
 
 'Is to take her cousin, the next best 
 to her, we'll say, old man ; but still, a
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHER. 273 
 
 mutual interchange would have been so 
 
 jolly !' 
 
 'Be thankful for what the 2:ods have 
 given you,' replied Johnson. 'Jessie is 
 getting on the shady side of thirty, John, 
 and Jennie is but twenty -one. Jessie, 
 though a very good sister to me, and an 
 excellent housekeeper, is old-maidish; she 
 loved some fool of a fellow just as she left 
 school, and he married ; and she has not 
 forgotten it, the stupid girl ; and so, some- 
 times, she gets mooney and moping. But 
 I don't think really, John, she will marry ; 
 but as, when I get settled, she will be part 
 of the year with us and the rest with aunt 
 at Bristol, the change might rouse her. 
 Xo, John,' said Johnson, ' you will do best 
 as arranged. Jennie is a jolly nice girl, 
 though she is my cousin ; and she will 
 make you a good wife, old fellow.' 
 
 The Jennie in question was a Miss Jane 
 Clare, whom Archer had met at the Rosary, 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 when she was on a visit to Miss Johnson, 
 for the first time there, as she had then only 
 recently left school ; and as when she came 
 again, and Miss Archer, who was then at 
 home, met her, they recognised each other 
 as former schoolfellows, at the first school 
 they went to, it was agreed that, before Miss 
 Clare went back to Bristol, she should come 
 and stay a week or two at the Grange, with 
 her and a lady friend — a Mrs. Best, a Avidow 
 — who was on a visit there; Johnson and 
 his sister Jessie, who could neither of them 
 just then leave home entirely, promising to 
 look in upon them most days. 
 
 Both Miss Archer and Miss Johnson 
 were dark-haired girls, but Miss Clare had 
 light sunny hair — the sort of hair, in fact, 
 that Archer was so fond of. And as she 
 was really a very nice sensible girl, with 
 a fair face and a good figure, and a lady — 
 as was to be expected, however, as she was 
 Johnson's cousin — Archer, who had just
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN AKCHEE. 2 / 5 
 
 then given up all hopes of persuadmg Miss 
 Johnson to change her mind, and so change 
 her name, began to think whether, as he 
 could not obtain the hand of the sister, he 
 might not be more successful with the 
 cousin. 
 
 And before she had been a week at the 
 Grange he was pretty well satisfied, from 
 what he had seen of her previously and 
 from what he had seen of her there, that, as 
 the saying is, he might ' go farther and 
 fare worse.' So he took Johnson into his 
 confidence; the result of which was that he 
 had more frequent opportunities of getting 
 side by side with her in their rambles 
 around the neighbourhood. 
 
 And it was then spring-time, and the 
 whole country was filled with the beauty 
 of it; for the woods were bursting into 
 blossom, and primroses were everywhere. 
 Violets lent their fragrance, blue sky its 
 brightness, and song-birds their cheerful-
 
 276 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 ness. The young soft green upon the trees 
 was grateful to the sight, and the ripple of 
 the brooks — heard now the floods were 
 gone — pleasing to the ear. Everything 
 was bright, and all was beautiful. It ^vas 
 a very time for love and love-making, and 
 Archer himself felt the force of it. 
 
 Sitting dreamily with a book under the 
 cedars at the Grange, one bright blue morn- 
 ing, he turned as he heard a footstep, and 
 seeing that it was Miss Clare, he raised his 
 hat as he rose and advanced across the lawn 
 to meet her. That chance meeting sealed 
 his fate ; for, dressed as she was in the sim- 
 plest and prettiest of spring costumes, with 
 a bright bow at the neck, and her sunny 
 hair loose under a hat and white feather, 
 he thought as she came towards him that 
 she looked most lovable. 
 
 Seeinir that she had some little wicker 
 affair in her hand, and was evidently on 
 her way to feed the fowls, that lay about
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHER. 277 
 
 there under the trees after they were let 
 out in the morning, and which were uh'eady 
 pets with her, he, meeting her, exclaimed: 
 
 ' Still thoughtful for }'our pets, I see, 
 Miss Clare.' 
 
 ' At your expense it is though, Mr. 
 Archer. AYere I to stay here long, the 
 debt,' said she, 'I fear, would be a heavy 
 one. I must not feed them.' 
 
 ' To be discharged by your good words 
 and smiles,' said he, with meaning. 
 
 'An easy payment, rendered cheerfully,' 
 she ansAvered smilingly. 'Your sister asked 
 for you ; she thought you had gone up to 
 the Rosary ; John, so she says, is coming 
 here soon, with Jessie.' 
 
 ' I Avas out there with a book. Miss Clare, 
 beneath the cedars.' 
 
 'You are fond of reading?' 
 
 ' 0, very fond ; I dearly love it. And 
 you,' said Archer, ' do you — you look as 
 though you do — like reading too?'
 
 278 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 ' 0, dearly, same as you.' 
 
 ' And poetry, Miss Clare ?' 
 
 '0 yes,' 'said she, 'I am very fond of 
 poetry !' 
 
 ' And who is your favourite author ?' 
 Archer asked. 
 • ' 0, Tennyson.' 
 
 'Mine also; that is singular,' said he. 
 ' We think alike. I am glad 'tis Tennyson. 
 It sho^vs a mind. Miss Clare, a poetry of 
 soul, to love his works, which therefore 
 you possess.' 
 
 ' Now that indeed is flattery !' said she. 
 
 'We never flatter those we like. Miss 
 Clare.' 
 
 ' Mr. Archer ! There ! Kate, I think, 
 is calling. Excuse me, Avill you not? I 
 will say I saw you.' 
 
 So Archer could not then commit him- 
 self. 
 
 But soon she came a2:ain. She had 'left' 
 the basket, and had quite forgotten ' all
 
 JANE CLAKE AND JOHN ARCHER. 279 
 
 those pretty fowls.' So then they went and 
 fed them — both together. 
 
 And coming back he pointed out the 
 views, and then the different peeps across 
 the garden ; and strolUng on they came to 
 the prettiest one of all, down by the Fern- 
 ery, Avhere, 'not to keep her standing,' they 
 sat down, for, well shut in by trees, it was 
 shady there ; and as he said that Kate was 
 coming there — at least he thought so — they 
 did not hurry, as it Avas so pleasant ; and 
 time, with Tennyson the topic, went on un- 
 heeded. 
 
 And then he passed to flowers, and talked 
 with her about them and their beauty; then 
 touched on colour, form, art, pictures, books, 
 and Avandered off to hedgerow things and 
 ferns, and the charms of young life bud- 
 ding in the "woods. 
 
 'AVhat say you to a stroll, Miss Clare, 
 said he, ' up through the woods, as it is so 
 iine to-day, if Kate and Johnson join us?
 
 280 TLIRTATION I>7 THE EEKNERY. 
 
 We will look for primroses and violets. You 
 will come back with an appetite for dinner, 
 and — ]3Grhaps " a truelove," ' 
 
 ' Now, John,' cried Johnson, coming on 
 them suddenly, ' don't drop ^^our voice like 
 that. 0,' said he, glancing at his cousin, 
 ' how somebody blushes ! Never mind, 
 Jennie, I won't look at you. I have been 
 through it, you know, and I know what it 
 is. I am sorry for you both ; I am indeed.' 
 
 'Now, cousin,' said she, 'what a tease 
 you are ! We were merely resting just for 
 a moment — now were ^vq, Mr. Archer, while 
 you pointed out the view from here?' 
 
 '0 yes, quite so,' was the reply. 'Don't 
 you rise. Miss Clare. In fact, old fellow,' 
 said he to Johnson, 'you interrupted me 
 before I had time to fully point it out to 
 her; but, as I was saying. Miss Clare, where 
 the trees dip so gracefully yonder to the 
 water, and — ' 
 
 'Now, John, don't!' said Johnson; 'don't
 
 JANE CLAKE AND JOHN. AKCHEK. 281 
 
 you do violence to your feelings. The way 
 the trees at the back here clip and screen 
 3'ou is far superior, and has far greater at- 
 tractions for you both, I know, than the 
 way they dip over yonder. you young 
 hypocrite !' said he to Jennie, passing his 
 hand through the sunnv hair that was on 
 her neck, as he stood behind the seat, and 
 raising her dimpled chin till her lips met 
 his, and thus very nearly driving Archer 
 wild at the sight of it. ' liow are you, you 
 little gipsy? There, run away directly,' 
 said he, kissing her, ' and get your things 
 on ; Kate and Jessie are going with us to 
 the woods. They will think you have found 
 " a truelove" if — ' 
 
 ' Be quiet, you tease! I don't know what 
 it means,' said she, 'I am sure I don't; noAV 
 do I, Mr. Archer?' 
 
 ' I'll tell you,' said Johnson, before Ar- 
 cher could reply, ' as you are so very inno- 
 cent, lie means a primrose with six leaves
 
 282 FLIRTATION IN THE FERNERY. 
 
 — six leaves or four. They call them, Jen- 
 nie, round this country, " trueloves." ' 
 
 'Then that,' said she, 'explains your 
 country phrase — I heard it, cousin! — "To 
 seek your truelove 'niongst the primroses." ' 
 
 ' Exactly, Jennie, though possibly there 
 is a deeper meaning ; but John will tell you. 
 But there, don't stay, you young blush-rose, 
 but trot away and tell them we are waiting. 
 And look here, Jennie,' said he, ' if Jessie 
 has a headache, and would prefer remaining 
 --mind, I say prefer — to keep Mrs. Best 
 company, tell her we will excuse her, if she 
 had rather not come ; but you come, mind 
 — you and Kate — if Jessie cannot ; and 
 look for " trueloves," ' said Johnson, laugh- 
 ing as he pinched her cheek. 
 
 ' yes, do ; come to the woods with us, 
 and seek you yours,' said Archer, in a low 
 tone, as she rose and, blushing, left them, 
 and tripped across the lawn into the house, 
 full of excuses for her absence from them.
 
 JANE CLARE AND JOHN ARCHER. 28'^> 
 
 But Kate and Jessie laughed, and went 
 outside to call them in to lunch — Johnson 
 and Archer. So Jennie, flushing, ran off to 
 her room, and shaking down her curls, soon 
 hid her blushes; and when she brushed her 
 back-hair they were gone ; but they came 
 again as she went in to lunch, and met 
 tTohn Archer. 
 
 And after lunch they started to go up to 
 the woods ; Miss Johnson, as she ' had' a 
 headache, remaining with Mrs. Best ; so jMiss 
 Clare and Archer, and Johnson and Miss 
 Archer, went there by themselves. But 
 both Archer and ]\Iiss Clare seemed tired, 
 for they did not anything like keep pace 
 with their companions, but lagged behind 
 sadly. The woods were tangled too, and 
 their search was a long one. 
 
 Miss Clare, however, did find ' a true- 
 love' — and so did Archer. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.